


The Darkest Realm

by Dizzojay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s06e09 Clap Your Hands If You Believe, Fae & Fairies, Gen, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-05 00:16:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dizzojay/pseuds/Dizzojay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for 6.09 - Clap Your Hands if You Believe.</p><p>… when the faeries abducted Dean, and he fought his way back - what if they really - I mean, really - liked what they saw?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea that has been floating around in my head ever since the first announcement that the boys would be doing battle with faeries in episode 6.09, and that they would be dealing with 'real' faeries; the malign, sinister creatures of ancient lore, not the pink, sparkly, vomit-inducing things of Disney movies and Enid Blyton books.
> 
> Faerie lore is some of the darkest, most sinister lore out there, and is littered with stories of people being scared to death, fading away of a broken heart or simply losing their minds, and this was what I am looking to convey in this story - as well as just indulging my vulnerable Dean/protective Sam preference.
> 
> Tom Matthews, my OC who has previously been seen in my stories 'Dry' and 'Hair of the Dog' which can be found at Fanfiction.net under my pen name (Dizzo) there and will eventually make their way over here makes an appearance in this story. A word on Tom, for those who have not met him: Bobby describes him as an old friend, a Doctor who runs an 'off the books' clinic looking after hunters. He is short and plump with expressive dark brown eyes. In their first meeting when Dean was, once again in bad straights, Sam liked him and trusted him on sight.
> 
> This story contains details of a non-consensual sexual act in chapter 3. If this sort of thing troubles you, PLEASE DO NOT READ, I have no wish to offend!
> 
> Oh, and finally, although this story is not AU, it also bears no particular resenblance to canon, so Sam is not soulless.

Sam let out a long sigh as he sat slumped on his bed and glanced at his watch; midnight. Even at this late hour, the sluggishly still air was thick with humidity and stiflingly warm. He felt like he could wring himself out.

What a night.

Every time he accompanied Dean out to a local bar, he came back remembering exactly why he hated accompanying Dean out to a local bar.

A whole evening of listening to deafening mullet rock music, drinking revolting gassy beer, keeping a weather eye on Dean to make sure his smart mouth didn't invite someone to wrap a pool cue round his neck, and politely fending off local airheads with the conversational skills of a doorknob had left him completely drained.

With a tired groan, he heaved himself up from his bed and hammered on the locked bathroom door. "Move it along dude, I need a pee."

A faint voice drifted over the hiss of the shower; "cork it, I'm busy."

Sam's head drooped and he gave the door one last exasperated thump before trudging back to the bed, squirming miserably as he sat.

When Dean eventually emerged from the bathroom through a cloud of scented steam, his face and chest still flushed a healthy pink from his hot shower, he was sporting the most annoying grin he could muster.

"Hey Sammy, bathroom's free," he announced innocently, towelling his damp hair.

Sam dashed past his brother without a word, slamming the door behind him and ignoring Dean's stifled chuckle as he watched him go.

Throwing his damp towel over the back of a chair, Dean pulled on a threadbare pair of grey sweatpants and briefly arranged his tousled hair with his fingertips before wearily stretching out on his bed. He folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes.

xxxxx

He cracked open an eye a few moments later as he heard the bathroom door open, and smiled. "Hey Sammy, better out than in huh?" he muttered casually.

Sam's eyes narrowed as he shucked his jeans and stepped into his sweatpants; "bite me," he grunted in return and wearily stomped over to his bed.

Perched on the edge of the bed he pulled off his socks, rolling them into a tight ball and launched them across the room to hit Dean squarely in the side of the face.

Dean's nose wrinkled in disgust, "oh gross dude;" he gingerly picked the balled socks off his bed by his fingertips and dropped them on the floor. He glanced across at his brother; "I hope your freakin' aim was good in there."

Sam grinned evilly, "guess you'll never know."

"Infant," grunted Dean, hoisting himself up onto his elbow and directing a loud belch in Sam's direction.

"Woah, that tasted a lot better on the way down."

Sam grimaced, and with a shake of the head he climbed into the bed, switching the wall light off and pulling the quilt up over his head in a manner that indicated the exchange was at an end.

Sitting in the darkness, Dean listened to Sam shifting in his bed as he searched for a comfortable position. He arched into a weary stretch, yawning widely as he scratched his armpit, then settled down into his own bed.

"G'night dude."

Sleep came quickly to both brothers.

xxxxx

Sam jerked awake with a start, at first unsure of what it was that woke him.

He sat blinking through the darkness for a moment, trembling slightly as he tried to shake a sense of unease that had gripped him when he snapped into wakefulness.

As his sleep-muzzed vision cleared, he saw the glowing numbers on the clock beside him; two thirty am.

A sense of calm descended over him and he scraped a hand over his face, slowly realising what had woken him. The thickly still moist air of the previous evening, had given way to a violent storm which raged above them, driving a howling wind that rattled the rotting window sashes. Sam got up and wandered dreamily across the room to look out at the swirling soup of murderous grey green clouds that tumbled slowly across the night sky.

With an absent scratch of the head he wandered back to his bed, stopping to glance across at his brother and shook his head in wonderment. Dean lay flat on his belly, blissfully lost in the deepest of sleeps, hugging his pillow, and completely oblivious of the furious tempest.

xxxxx

The following morning, Sam was first to wake.

Sitting on the side of his bed he dopily blinked his way back into awareness, as he arched into a long and satisfying stretch.

Glancing back at the other bed, he noticed with amusement that Dean was still flat out; belly down, fast asleep. Nothing more than an unmoving lump under a rumpled quilt.

He shook his head with a wry grin; man, what the hell had Dean been drinking last night?

Standing up, he padded barefoot toward the bathroom, yelling over his shoulder as he went, "c'mon Sleepin' Beauty; your turn to make the coffee."

A leak, a shave and a shower later, Sam emerged from the bathroom to find Dean still buried under his quilt, signs of movement or life in general still noticeably absent.

"Jesus, Dean," Sam shrugged and filled the kettle; looked like he was making his own coffee then.

He stared intently at the unmoving lump as he spooned dusty brown granules into two mugs.

"Dean…"

Still no response.

"Dean, c'mon man …" he raised his voice.

Silence.

Spying his brother's bare foot hanging limply off the end of the bed, Sam stepped over and slapped the sole, "c'mon bro', up an' at em."

When there was still no acknowledgement, not even a twitch of the abused foot, a knot of concern gripped Sam's heart. With no hesitation or pretensions to decency, he strode over to the bed and yanked back the quilt, grasping his brother's bare shoulder.

He recoiled in horror at what he felt beneath his fingers.

xxxxx

Where Sam had been expecting to feel his brother's warm, perspiration-moistened skin, all he felt was cold; not 'turn the heating up, dude' cold, but unnaturally, lifelessly cold.

Sam felt a shocked cry escape his lips and he gathered Dean's unmoving body up into his arms.

"Dean, Dean, c'mon man … Dean, don't do this;" a tumbling, breathless cascade of meaningless words, as much for his own reassurance as for Dean's.

Dean's body was completely without warmth, the deathly chill permeating through Sam's thin T shirt as he frantically wrestled the limp form of his brother into a sitting position beside him.

"No no no no no no …" Sam shook his head, blinking back stinging tears as his mind refused to process what was happening.

He stared down into Dean's slack, expressionless face, straight into wide open green eyes.

They blinked.

Jerking in shock, Sam grasped the tiny movement like a drowning man grasping a piece of driftwood.

"Dean, look at me …" he gently patted Dean's cold face, tilting his chin so that he was facing Sam; "Dean, I'm here dude…" he mustered a shaky smile through the tears that streamed down his face.

Dean blinked again. His face remained impassively still, those glassy green eyes registering not the slightest acknowledgement towards the terrified man holding him in a despairing embrace.

Feeling Dean's strangely cool breath on his jaw; Sam reflected. Dean ate a massive burger with extra onions and garlic mayonnaise last night. His breath this morning should be evil enough to floor a cow at ten paces, but there was nothing; not even the faintest hint of any odour. It felt so very wrong.

As his frantic mind continued to race, he realised he could feel a strong even heartbeat through his arm which was wrapped around Dean's back. That had to be good, right?

What the hell was it? Had Dean had some kind of brain seizure in the night? Was this some kind of fit or breakdown? He was here in Sam's arms, but he sure as hell wasn't here at all.

He stared intently into those oddly glazed green eyes.

But suddenly it wasn't the eyes that drew Sam's attention, it was the skin around them.

Was he imagining it?

Rubbing his tired tear-blurred eyes, he looked down at his brother, frowning with confusion.

There was a definite, faint green tinge to Dean's skin.

Where previously Dean's skin had carried a healthy tawny sheen, now his complexion was a nauseously sickly pallor; bloodlessly grey, and tinged with a faint billious green.

Sam pulled Dean in closer, cradling his head in the crook of his neck, and rubbed his hand up and down the ridges of his brother's spine. "Oh God Dean," he sighed; "what's wrong with you?"

xxxxx

In a darkened bower, candlelight fluttered and shimmered, casting a dancing golden light over two tall figures that stood within the highly vaulted space. The faintest scents of honeysuckle and toadflax drifted on the cool air.

Between them stood a cot, hung with the pelt of a white hind.

The unconsciously still body of a young man lay on the cot, curled on his side, within the soft folds of the pelt.

"I will make good use of it father," one of the figures whispered to the other.

She slowly knelt, leaning closely in toward her prize, and lightly rested a slender hand on his spiky scalp, closing her eyes in sensual bliss as she inhaled deeply of the sleeping man's faint musk. She traced a fingertip down his neck, lightly following the curve of his shoulder smiling as his smooth skin flickered beneath her touch.

The taller figure smiled; "if it pleases you my daughter, then it is yours to use as you will." He looked over the cot at his daughter; "this one is spirited, but even those that show reluctance at first soon bend to our ways. It is yours to tame."

"It is a fine specimen and will strengthen our bloodline. Make use of it before it fades away."

xxxxx

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

Sam sat and stared helplessly at the silent, impassive figure before him. Dean was sitting on the side of his bed, in exactly the spot that Sam had manoeuvred him into, hands laying limply in his lap, staring glassily back through Sam as if he were invisible.

Beside Sam lay the evidence of unsuccessful attempts to find out what was wrong with his brother; a silver knife, an iron knife and a bottle of holy water.

Dean's forearm bore the faint marks of two scratches, one from each blade, both of which had not gleaned the slightest reaction. Sam had simply watched in perplexed horror as watery, greenish-brown blood had trickled freely from each wound which had then closed over almost instantly.

Similarly, splashing holy water into his brother's face had been met with a total lack of response, not even a blink.

Sam's head dropped into his hands. In his abject despair there was only one person he could think to turn to.

xxxxx

Watery green eyes fluttered open, blinking blearily through a hazy dawn light.

Sitting up, the bewildered man rubbed his head and groaned as a wave of dizziness overtook him, forcing him to flop back down onto the cot and swallow back a creeping nausea.

"Shit, what the hell was I drinking last night?"

He rolled onto his back, panting miserably and flopped an arm limply over his teary eyes, sighing as his spinning head pounded and throbbed.

It was a few more minutes before he felt robust enough to try to sit up again, this time his weary body stiffly co-operated.

Almost instantly his addled mind began to race; this SO wasn't the room he went to sleep in last night.

Blinking through the dappled sunlight, he sat, scanning his surroundings and tried to take stock of what was, it had to be said, a bizzare situation.

The boundaries of the space around him were marked by six ancient oak trees; tortuously gnarled and knotted, twisting and arching into each other like tormented souls reaching out for salvation. The spaces between them were draped with rich silken hangings, some heavy and beautifully decorated with cords of gold and silver, others gossamer thin, glistening and sparkling in the soft breeze like the wings of a dragonfly. The whole effect created a strangely dreamy enclosed space.

He gradually realised was sitting on a low cot, covered with the skanky hide of some dead animal. His nose wrinkled in disgust and he felt an itch tickle it's way up his back just at the thought.

Looking up he could see the canopies of two of the oaks entwined way above his head forming a high vaulted ceiling, through which the diffused sunlight filtered, mottling everything around it in a flickering patchwork of light and shadow.

As he attempted to stand for the first time, he became aware of the cool, dewey dampness of a patch of clover beneath his bare feet. Scanning the floor, he saw that the clover extended in a lush green carpet across the whole glade.

Vivid dots of colour peppered the expanse of green around him where wild flowers had forced their brightly coloured heads through the rich carpet of clover. Above them, golden tendrils of honeysuckle clung tightly to the grotesque, weathered trunks of the oaks, and around the edges of the whole clearing, a ring of swaying ferns softly whispered and sighed in the breeze.

Suddenly, the dappled sunlight which flickered across his swimming vision, the whispering of the canopy above him, the rich loamy scent of the soil, and the sweetly suffocating fragrances of the flowers around him all became crushingly overwhelming and he began to tremble, feeling the gooseflesh skittering across his bare back.

Where's Sammy?

Was this a dream? It couldn't be a dream; you can't smell things in goddamn dreams …

Could you?

His heart began to race, forcing his breaths to come faster and harsher, making his head spin as fear and confusion overtook him; the clearing around him blurred and darkened.

Feeling his knees buckle, he staggered backwards, and his fall to the ground became a slow descent as two arms encircled him and lowered him carefully back onto the cot.

xxxxx

Sam sighed in relief as the phone picked up the other end.

Without even waiting for the other man to speak, Sam began; the words tumbling out of his mouth in a desperate babbling panic.

"Bobby, something's really badly wrong with Dean, he wouldn't wake up this morning, and when I eventually woke him up he's in some sorta trance, he hasn't said one word to me, and he's freezing cold, but he's not shivering, and he won't talk to me, and he's green, and I've done all the drill, and he ain't a shifter, or a demon or a revenant or a ghoul or anything else we know about, but he's got the tattoo and nothing can get into him with that anyway, and I don't know what's wrong with him, and I don't think if I took him to a hospital they would know what it is, and I wondered if you've ever come across anything like this and … and …"

The torrent of words slowed to a trickle then stopped as Sam ran out of breath. Bobby patiently allowed the distressed man to speak his piece, and considered what he had heard for a moment. Eventually he found his voice.

"Did you say he was GREEN?"

"Yeah," Sam muttered, "not bright green, like Kermit the Frog green, but a very faint sorta horrible greeny tinge. He looks really, really sick."

Sam sat on the bed fidgeting and fretting as he heard Bobby's muffled voice on the end of the phone talking away from the handset as if to another person. He couldn't pick out individual words except to hear the other person exclaim; "green?"

Bobby's voice sounded again, and the sense of urgency was unmistakeable.

"I've jus' got back from a fishin' weekend with Tom. He's here right now, get Dean over here right away".

"You got it Bobby," Sam replied and turned the phone off.

"C'mon Dean," Sam stepped across to his silent brother and crouched down, giving the empty man a gentle hug; "lets get you ready dude, we're goin' for a ride."

Xxxxx

Sam and Bobby stood staring at the hollow-eyed figure in front of them as he sat placidly on a chair in Bobby's kitchen, allowing an utterly nonplussed Tom to examine him.

Tom crouched in front of him, muttering reassurances to the silent, still figure as he gently pressed a stethoscope to his chest. His brow furrowed in confusion, as he picked up Dean's wrist for the third time to check his pulse.

As he stood holding Dean's folded T-shirt, Sam noticed for the first time in the daylight of Bobby's kitchen that the faint tint of green was stronger over some parts of Dean's body than others. It seemed more pronounced over his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose and across his shoulders and chest. It was then Sam realised; his freckles. The darker shade was Dean's freckles – it followed, they were a darker golden shade when his skin was its normal colour, now they are a darker shade of green.

He scrunched his hand into the crumpled shirt and lifted it to his face, inhaling the fading scent of his real brother. He felt as if he wanted to cry.

It had been surprisingly easy for Sam to work this new compliant version of his brother into his T-shirt, and slowly and carefully walk him to the Impala. In the whole six hour journey Dean had neither spoken or looked anywhere except straight out of the windscreen, nor had he expressed a wish to eat, drink, or stop for any other reason.

Bobby slid a hand under his hat as he watched Tom work and scratched his head: "ain't never seen anything like this before," he huffed out on a long breath, "the hell kind of condition turns a man green?" Sam and Bobby both turned to Tom.

Tom replied; "I only know of two conditions that can have that effect; an extremely acute and severe form of anaemia and arsenic poisoning."

Bobby looked back to Dean; "well it can't be friggin' anaemia – not with the amount of red meat he gets down his neck," he turned to Sam; "Sam, you said you went to a really rough bar last night, you don't suppose someone could have slipped something in his drink?"

Before Sam had a chance to answer, Tom turned round shaking his head.

"No, it's not any kind of poisoning; this isn't a medical problem, it has got to be something supernatural." He visibly wilted in front of the two men, letting out a sigh of frustration; "whatever this is, it's breaking every rule of anatomy, physiology, biology – heck – every rule of nature I know. His temperature is just over sixty degrees. For that reason alone he should be dead. But here he is with a heartbeat and a pulse as strong as a mule sitting there looking at me. None of this makes a lick of damn sense …" He shrugged miserably, "I just don't know, I really don't."

Sam eyes widened as he looked up at Tom; "he looked at you?"

"Yeah," Tom nodded, "his eyes were following every move I made."

"Huh? He just stares straight through me, like I'm not there," Sam felt a bristle of pained jealousy – why should Dean respond to positively to someone they've only met a handful of times but not at his own brother?

"Me too," added Bobby sadly.

"C'mon, lets get him settled in his bed and comfortable until we can figure out what to do," Bobby gently coaxed, seeing how close to the edge Sam was.

Tenderly wrapping an arm around Dean's back, Sam helped him to his feet, and together they made a slow and methodical way up the stairs, followed by Tom and Bobby.

As they reached the top of the stairs, Dean stopped; the first independent movement he had made since he had gone to bed last night, and turned to look at the men behind him.

"Tom," he whispered.

xxxxx

Comforted by the calming darkness of his closed eyes, he lay limply in the cot, slowly breathing away the nausea that had gripped him as he fainted.

Soothed by the gentle attentions of a cool facecloth pressed against his forehead, he began to relax; "s'nice S'mmy…" he moaned softly, shifting as the cloth worked it's way down either side of his neck.

"Be still. It will pass."

Didn't sound like Sammy.

"The transition between our worlds is harsh, soon you will recover."

He let out a sigh, and burrowed further down into the cot, hearing the tinkling of water as the cloth was rinsed, and once again pressed against his forehead.

A cool thumb reached up and wiped away a trickle of water that escaped down his temple, just as he cautiously opened his eyes to look up into the face of his caregiver.

And gasped.

xxxxx

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

The woman crouching beside the cot stood up slowly.

"Good day, Dean," she greeted him quietly.

Dean gaped, pebble-eyed, at her.

She stood ramrod straight, taller than Dean, a hazy ray of sunlight bathing her alabaster skin in an ethereal green glow. Long, silken hair of ivory white tumbled down around her slender shoulders, curling around prominent, apple-round breasts; faint streaks of green in her hair strengthened toward her hairline, blending into darker green skin across her heavily ridged forehead.

His mouth dropped open even further as he looked up to see the two sharp ridges which ran up her forehead above each narrow, highly-arched brow emerging through her hair as a pair of short, two-branched antlers.

She stared back at him impassively through emerald green eyes, slanted and appraising like a cat's.

Dean became blank. Every rational thought in his mind chased away by this vision before him which was at once hauntingly beautiful and utterly terrifying.

It seemed like half a lifetime before he found his tongue.

"W-what the hell?"

She sat down again and offered Dean a cup of water; "drink this, it will refresh you."

Taking the cup, Dean was still unable to tear his eyes from his companion. He noticed her robe, shimmering silver and gossamer thin. As it skimmed her delicate, slender body he could clearly see that whoever – or whatever – she was, she was built like any other woman; antlers notwithstanding.

His mouth worked silently for a few moments; "Who a-are you?" he stammered, "where the hell am I?"

She canted her head, considering the bemused man for a moment; "so many questions," She stated simply, before continuing.

"We are the Tua'tha," she eventually revealed.

Dean blinked; "the what?" It was a new one on him.

"We are the Tua'tha;" she repeated with a brief sigh of exasperation; "although your simple people would know us as one of the many races of faerie folk."

Dean froze as he lifted the cup to his lips.

"Faerie?"

She nodded slowly; "It is a term we find - unappealing."

Dean recoiled, dropping the cup as if it were red hot; spilling the water over himself and this strange woman.

"I'm not drinking that," he gasped, a hint of anger creeping into his voice as he wiped his wet hands on his sweatpants, "I know the deal; I might be human but I'm not a freakin' moron," he spluttered; "I know if I eat or drink any of this crap, then I'm screwed, I can't go home because I'll fade away with longing for this place." He scrambled off the cot, "you took me again, you grabby green douchebags, you had no freakin' right."

He found his feet and shakily backed away from the cot and the mesmerising elemental standing beside it.

"Take me back, or I swear I will fight my way out, even if I have to take all you sonsofbitches with me."

Staring levelly at him, she seemed unmoved by his threat. "You are here for a reason and will not be returned."

Dean's face twisted in anger; "and what freakn' reason is that then?"

"You are here because I desire it so."

Dean spluttered, flushing in fury; "my brother will tear heaven and earth apart to find me, and when he does …"

She allowed a cold smile to creep across her full lips.

"Your brother is not looking for you. He is … distracted."

Dean felt his heart lurch, his eyes narrowing dangerously; "what did you do to him, bitch?"

She raised a hand; "no more questions; you are a servant of the Tua'tha, and will remain so. That is all that is important to you."

Dean choked over his outrage; "the hell I am," he growled through gritted teeth, his eyes darting all over the glade as he searched for an escape route.

She took a step toward him; "when you acquiesce to our will, your life here will be short, but pleasant," she eyed his body keenly and he shuddered at the cold hunger in her eyes. For the first time that he could remember, he felt conscious about being in a state of undress in front of a woman and coyly wrapped his arms across his bare chest in an awkward attempt to cover himself.

As she continued, moving toward him, a dangerous tone settled in her voice; "you would do well to appreciate that a royal princess of the Tua'tha has chosen one from your bestial race as her favourite."

Dean continued to back away, his anger warring with suffocating, bone cold fear.

"Sorry lady," he growled, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice; "I'm not interested in needy broads who have to resort to kidnapping their dates." He grunted as his back bumped hard into one of the oak trees around him; "and I sure as hell don't date chicks with horns."

She let out a furious hiss and extended a raised palm toward him. The pain hit Dean like a lightening bolt and he doubled over, dropping to his knees in breathless agony as fire erupted in his chest.

xxxxx

"BOBBY, TOM …" Sam felt his shout rising into a scream of panic as he watched Dean suddenly curl up on the bed clutching his chest and giving out an incoherent cry of agony.

Sam leaned in close, trying to comfort his brother, but his soothing touch had not the slightest effect.

Tom and Bobby both charged into the room, panting from their exertion and from the shock of hearing Sam's cry.

"What's happening to him?" Sam gasped desperately, his long arms embracing the writhing, squealing figure.

Tom walked round the bed; "let me look." Sam reluctantly stepped back to allow Tom access to his distressed brother and watched as Tom laid a flat hand across Dean's chest, trying to rub some comfort through the pain.

Bobby absently removed his cap, crushing it between both shaking hands as he helplessly watched Tom gradually soothing the suffering figure on the bed.

"What the hell's goin' on?" he whispered plaintively to no-one in particular, "what's happenin' to my boy?"

xxxxx

"You will learn respect, and you will accept our hospitality;" The princess' elegant features tightened with petulant anger.

Choking and gasping, Dean crawled weakly away on his elbows as she strode toward him, white hair floating around her head like an ivory halo. When she reached him, she stood over her prize, watching impassively as he tried to scramble to his feet.

She was alive with desire for this powerful man, intoxicated by the sight of strong slabs of muscle laced with tendons and sinews which bulged and trembled as he struggled to move away from her … so raw and so base compared to the willowy, ethereal males of her own race.

Moving to crouch over him, she basked in the evocative, overpowering musk of his sweat and terrified anger; the cold desire rolling off her as she bore down on him, straddling his waist on her knees.

Suddenly he found he could barely breathe. His arms and legs grew heavier and heavier until he found himself unable to move them. She had paralysed him with her faerie magic, leaving him a prisoner to her will. Arching and bucking wildly, he tried to dislodge her, but she was a solid, unfaltering presence which might have been stone.

Unable to make a sound, he yawned a silent cry, head rocking frantically from side to side as her fingertips began to toy with their prey, scratching circles of burning ice across his skin.

His body was ablaze as her cruel teasing intensified and he felt a burning warmth spreading through his groin: "no, no, no," he bit back tears of frustration as he felt his own body hardening and reacting naturally to her tormenting touch, and the sight of her firm slender outline moving above him; his own body was betraying him.

Dean's world was pain. His hands fisted and clawed at thin air as he writhed and flexed beneath her relentless attentions; sobbing gasps burning in his chest. She briefly rose and aggressively tugged down his sweatpants, and boxers, discarding them on the ground beside him. She paused, licking moist full lips as her emerald green eyes, glistening with malice and desire, swept the entirety of his helpless body.

Kneeling back down, she brushed an appreciative fingertip along his rapidly hardening length smiling coldly as he moaned at her touch, writhing and flexing in throes of agonising need as he lay, still pinned helplessly to the ground. He squeezed his eyes closed as he tried to blot out the horror of what was happening to him, feeling warm tears escape beneath his lashes.

Dean's skin was drenched, sweat coursing down his body as she straddled him once again, those ice-cold hands exploring and tormenting the landscape beneath her.

Throwing his head back, he gasped for air as she leaned over him and brought her tongue to bear against his skin, tracing a trail of fire along his extended throat, down the smooth plane of his sternum, toying with his nipples until they were hardened to pain.

He couldn't think he could only feel. His body had become a separate thing, as he cowered in the recess of his mind, feeling his physical self writhing and contorting, heels drumming helplessly on the soft clover, eyes closed in ecstatic agony beneath this cruel beauty who was playing his body like a fine instrument, composing a symphony of terrible passion which tipped to and fro across the line into exquisite torture.

Frantic to seek release, Dean weakly arched his hips, trying to prompt some sympathy from his tormentor, and receiving none. Completely helpless, he stifled a sob as she regarded his abused body with a lustful coldness, deliberately bending her back to deny him the relief he desperately craved.

His world darkened further into pain as she attacked him with an animal frenzy, each nip and scratch like burning ice against his skin; the agony of the passionate fury rising to levels of intensity far beyond his endurance.

He shrank in revulsion on hearing himself yelp and moan beneath her malicious touch. He knew she was consumed by pure, wild lust; driven by furious hunger and a desire to dominate. There was not and would never be any love. Love was a giving, sharing experience; this was nothing more than a brutal act of possession.

Eventually she relented, leaning back to allow his rock hard, throbbing length to enter her body and as the passion and torment increased towards climax, a searing heat burned through his groin, bursting and crackling through his exhausted, sweat-slicked body.

Digging into his very last shreds of strength, he arched and thrusted beneath her, his body snapping rigid as the climax swept over him, both parties voicing their feral release at the same time.

She knelt over him and watched as he sunk limply back onto the ground, boneless and spent. He trembled and gasped breathlessly as his traumatised mind tried to rationalise what had just happened to him, blinking to clear the bursting spots of light which flickered and crackled across his drifting vision.

"You will do well to embrace our ways," the princess warned as she stood, casually smoothing her gown back over her delicate hips, and glanced down at her plaything. 

She walked away to leave him laying discarded and bleeding among the primroses on the forest floor.

xxxxx

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

Sitting beside the bed containing the silent shadow of his brother, Sam talked incessantly about whatever trite garbage came to his mind, desperate to reach out and make some connection with Dean. He constantly held Dean's stone cold hand, ghosting a thumb across his wrist.

"Hey, Dean," he exclaimed, forcing a watery smile across his face; "do you remember that time here at Bobby's when we were kids and you spilt milk all over his EMF meter, and then you panicked and hid it behind the dresser? It must have been five years before he found it. Then he spent another five years convinced it was a poltergeist that put it there."

Sam's smile trembled as he remembered Bobby's frustration at losing his valuable tool, his confusion at finding it and how he had cuffed Dean, by then a grown man, round the head all the way through the house and halfway across the yard when he had eventually owned up to it.

Sam sighed as his repeated efforts to get in touch with Dean received only blank silence in return.

He looked up as the door clicked and Tom walked into the room.

"Hey Sam, how is he?"

Sam sighed, "no different," he hesitated as tears threatened to steal his voice, "still nothing, no response at all."

Tom walked over to the forlorn man and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder; "we'll get this figured out, you know that right?"

Sam continued to stare at Dean.

"Bobby's down there at the moment with his head in about five thousand books, Tom continued, "if anyone can figure this out, he will."

Sam blinked through a swimming haze of tears without looking up. He nodded, clearly unconvinced.

"Any more of that yelling and thrashing from yesterday?"

Sam shook his head, silently. "No, he hasn't moved, spoken or looked at me the whole time I've been sitting here."

Tom nodded, "well that's good, I guess; I don't know what that episode was yesterday, but damn; it scared the hell outta me!"

Both men jolted when Dean suddenly sat bolt upright and stared with unblinking green eyes at Tom

"Tom," he murmured, without breaking eye contact.

Dean's voice, strangely reedy and hoarse from lack of use washed over Sam like a refreshing tide. He only wished the name it carried had been his.

Tom glanced briefly at Sam, then back to Dean; "Hey Dean," he ventured, walking round the bed and plastering a smile across his face, "you thirsty?"

Green eyes followed Tom round the bed as Dean shook his head.

"C'mon, son, you must be thirsty, you haven't drunk for over a day," Tom coaxed, "don't make me hook you up to a drip."

Dean shook his head again.

Tom sighed and laid a hand across the stone-cold forehead, "you up to tellin' us what happened to you, Dean?"

Dean gazed at Tom in silence.

Reflecting, Tom reworded his question, his heart aching for Sam who sat watching the exchange with heartbreak written all over his face.

"Dean, you up to tellin' ME what happened to you?"

Dean blinked.

"Not Dean."

Tom glanced up at Sam, then back to Dean, "not Dean? What does that mean, Dean?" he questioned gently.

"Not Dean," came the same cryptic response.

Tom looked over Dean's shoulder to Sam who was watching the exchange nervously; "Sam, get Bobby in here," he whispered.

Sam nodded smartly and crept out of the room.

"You're not Dean? Is that what you're telling me?" Tom probed patiently.

"Not Dean. Drow."

Tom's brow furrowed in confusion; "Drow … what is that?"

"Not Dean; Drow."

Tom glanced up as he heard the door click quietly and Bobby and Sam slipped into the room, unnoticed by Dean, and keeping well away from the bed.

Tom reached out and gently took Dean's hand. Dean made no effort to pull away.

"Drow? Is that your name? Is what you would like me to call you?"

A shake of the head.

"Lloth."

"Lloth, is that your name?"

A nod, and a blink. "Tom. Lloth."

"Well, I'm pleased to meet you Lloth, what is Drow?"

Lloth looked up at Tom. "Man. Drow."

Tom smiled, "ah, I see; Lloth is your name, Drow is your race."

A nod.

Bobby and Sam glanced at each other; ice cold shock tightening their faces. "What the hell?" he whispered, "if that thing there isn't Dean … then where the heck is he?"

Tom smiled kindly, "tell me, Lloth, why do you Drows look like my friend Dean?"

"Lloth. Slave."

Tom's expression changed to one of concern, "are you a slave? Has someone been ill treating you?"

A nod, "slave with face of friend."

Lloth lay back and closed his eyes

"Tom."

Tom leaned in to hear the voice which had suddenly become barely a whisper.

"Do you need to rest Lloth?"

A nod.

Tom smiled sadly and gently pulled the blankets up over the resting figure.

He stood back as the green eyes closed and looked up at the two men on the other side of the room. "All that mean anything to either of you?"

Bobby's eyes were wide with horror; "if I've understood all that correctly, 'slave with the face of a friend', it sounds like our buddy Lloth here is a changeling."

He looked at Sam, his face drained of all colour; "an' if that's a changeling it means we're dealing with faeries. It means Dean's been taken by those bastard faeries again, and if they've slipped us a changeling, it shows they mean business this time."

xxxxx

Dean opened his eyes with a pained effort and blinked in that familiar dawn haze again. He stirred slowly at first, his brutalised body aching at every movement.

He realised he had spent the night sleeping on the ground amongst the clover, where he had passed out after the princess had abandoned him; the cool dampness of the dew had seeped into his bones making him feel like the entire US cavalry had galloped over him.

Slowly, shakily sitting up, he tried to swallow back the nausea that rolled through him. Thirsty as hell, he licked his dry lips, and shuddered. He could still feel her hungry, groping ice cold hands all over him; the sharp nip of her teeth, the sharp scratch of her nails. He could see her taunting face as she revelled in his pain and humiliation. He cringed, fighting back a strong urge to puke; he couldn't bear to even look at himself; he just wanted to tear all his skin off and start over with a new hide, one that was clean and pure and hadn't been polluted by that foul green bitch.

He gradually collected his thoughts, realising he was trembling and not sure if it was a reaction from the aftermath of yesterday's assault, his grinding hunger and thirst or the chill breeze.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and counted to ten, slowly.

He was going to break out of this freaky shithole. He didn't know how dangerous it was out there in the forest, but he was Dean Winchester and he sure as hell wasn't going to sit here meekly like a wet drip waiting for that twig-headed skank to come and assault him again. He was going to make a run for it; try and find somewhere where he could be safe to consider his options.

His options, he reflected, which were becoming increasingly limited given that he was not going to be able to eat or drink while he was here if he wanted to stand a chance of getting back to the real world, and he was already light-headed; the pain of hunger and thirst gnawing away in the pit of his stomach.

But, the hell, he was going to bust out of here or die trying. That was the Winchester way.

xxxxx

Hauling himself to his feet with a groan, he winced as he looked down at his chest criss-crossed with angry scratches and bite marks. He cursed himself as his vision briefly darkened and he lost his balance, stumbling and collapsing down onto his aching backside again.

He sat for a few moments until his head had stopped spinning then struggled back up to his feet, chastising himself for being so weak.

A hot blush crept across his cheeks as he suddenly realised he was still naked from yesterday's ordeal. Climbing clumsily into his dew-dampened sweatpants, he stood, panting miserably and bent double as he tried to blink away the dizzy nausea.

It took some time, but he eventually felt steady enough to stand and survey the glade.

He hobbled, rubber legged, over to one of the silk hangings which marked the edges of the clearing to create the enclosed bower and timidly lifted it. Where he had expected to see the forest receding into the distance, however, he saw only darkness.

Blank, featureless darkness; a void.

Dropping the silken screen back down, he stumbled backwards, feeling his heart begin to race, and raised another, heavier drape on the other side of the glade. He looked again. Once again it was nothing but crushing blackness. No floor, no trees; an absence of anything.

He bit his lip to control his rising dread, and limped across the clearing to another of the hangings. He took a shuddering breath before lifting it, hoping against hope he wouldn't see what he knew was going to be there.

Another expanse of impenetrably black nothing.

By the time he approached the final drape, he was struggling to hold back tears of furious, terrified frustration.

He grasped the delicate sheet and forcefully yanked it upwards, expecting to see the same soul-sapping darkness, but instead saw what he was hoping to see; the forest.

A leaf-strewn track stretched far into the distance with dense banks of oaks, each as ancient and tormented as the ones around the glade, either side of his line of vision. Fragments of blue sky penetrated the leaf canopy, bathing the track in a soft, dappled sunlight.

He let out a choking sob of relief.

Glancing cautiously back to check the green bitch wasn't standing behind him, he took a long, deep breath to fortify himself as he ducked under the curtain.

xxxxx

He found himself walking slowly and laboriously through the forest, a spongy carpet of leafy moss beneath his feet; the monolithic oaks coiling out of the ground either side of him forming an endless avenue. Dean's every self-preservation instinct tingled wildly with a sense of deep foreboding as he cautiously picked his barefoot way along the spongy moss and tangled tree roots which lined the shadowy track.

All the sounds familiar to a forest environment surrounded him; the rustling and scuttling of small animals in the undergrowth, the wind sighing through the leaves, the sweet tinkling notes of birdsong; and there was something else he could hear. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but on the basis of his experience of this place, he was fairly confident it couldn't be good.

It was a whining, humming sound; reminding him of the whirring of a dynamo. He couldn't be sure over the soft white noise of the forest sounds around him, but he thought it seemed to be getting closer.

A cold chill skittered up his spine, scattering goosebumps across his bare shoulders and he hugged himself as the breeze strengthened around him. A pall fell across him; where previously the track had been alight with dancing flecks of sunlight, it was now shrouded in the gloom of threatening storm clouds, and always that whining, whirring sound was with him, growing louder and more sinister with every moment.

Dean froze, sucking in shallow, shaky breaths as his heart hammered in his chest. It would be un-Winchester for him to admit he was more terrified than he had ever been before in his life.

Behind him was that terrible glade and the promise of a life of humiliation and slavery at the hands of that wicked green freak; ahead of him was something unknown but none of the signs were that it was going to be in any way good, safe or welcoming.

The whirring sound was becoming louder and louder, filling his head with a clamour that squeezed the breath right out of his lungs. He staggered backwards as the gusting wind grew stronger, and cold slanting rain began to whip his body.

Then he saw it.

xxxxx

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nb: in Orcadian and Shetlandic folklore, a drow (or trow) is a small, troll-like faerie creature. In general, they are inclined to be short, black skinned, shy and mischievous in nature.


	5. Chapter 5

It was a short distance ahead of him blocking his path and was, without a doubt, the weirdest, most disturbing thing he had ever seen in his life - and that was taking into account a long history of dealing with weird, eerie and just plain freaking unnatural.

So mesmerised was he by the sight in front of him, he barely noticed the chill of the squalling rain which was suddenly whipping round him nor that the buzzing sound had fallen silent.

Hovering motionless just above the ground the creature, at least he guessed it was a creature, stared silently through the downpour back at him.

Black as pitch; it was covered with a mangy scattering of hair, which clung limply to it's grotesque stringy body in the rain.

Its three long spidery limbs made his flesh crawl.

His racing mind tried to rationalise what he was seeing; three bent legs, all pointing the same way, arranged in a circle.

At the junction of the three legs; the 'hub' of the circle, two round green eyes continued to stare dispassionately through the driving rain at Dean as he stood mesmerised, shivering against the strengthening force of the storm around him.

Those hypnotic green eyes full of cold malice had sent a shiver along his spine, but what he was currently staring at as he squinted through the downpour, trying to shield his face from the stinging ice-cold rain was a set of fierce grey claws at the end of each leg which glistened dangerously as stray raindrops trickled along their length.

Slowly, shakily, he began to back away, the buffeting wind and ice cold rain conspiring with legs weakened by abuse, dehydration and paralysing fear; each time he staggered backwards, the strange being inched forward.

Suddenly, it began to spin, slowly at first, then faster and faster until it was nothing more than a whirling black disc hovering several inches above the ground. As it spun, the dreadful whirring sound resumed, louder than ever.

Beyond scared, Dean turned and ran; a limping, stiff-legged retreat through the forest. Blinded by the stinging rain, his eyes darted either side of him, searching through the driving rain for an escape route, but the tangled mass of trees either side of him were too dense for him to find a path through, the only way was back was where he had come from.

The creature turned side on and to Dean's horror, it began to move towards him, in a swift rolling motion, cutting through the air like a circular saw, rainwater spray flying off it as it span, spinning and whirling closer and closer ... the whining buzz became deafening as it bore down on him, the vibrations filling his chest to bursting and rattling his ribs.

He tore back toward the glade, buffeted by the gusting wind, nearly losong his footing several times. Gasping and choking as the rain poured harder and colder, his arms shielded his face from the freezing onslaught, batting low hanging branches away from his face; his cramping legs pumped like pistons as he pushed them beyond what he ever imagined he would be capable of in his weakened state.

His heart pounded with each panting gasp that his burning lungs could force out of his heaving chest, and behind him he could hear the thing pursuing him effortlessly, spinning and whirling like a deadly catherine wheel.

A panic stricken glance over his shoulder told him that it was only inches behind him now; the hideous, mocking whine was louder than ever; an overpowering dissonant screech that engulfed him. He let out a breathless cry of terror, pressing his hands over his ears to block out the awful noise. Close to collapse, he forced his straining legs into one last effort when he finally saw the curtain he had emerged from just ahead of him.

He lunged for it, arms and legs flailing helplessly as he felt the airstream from the creature's whirling limbs across his bare back, and tumbled under the silken drape, letting out a yelp of pain as one set of the whirling claws caught him, carving three straight gashes down the centre of his back.

Landing heavily on his shoulder, he rolled over, coming to rest face down in a tangle of strengthless limbs among the horribly familiar clover. He lay, soaked and quaking, gasping for air as a pool of dripping rainwater spread around him.

He grimaced as the gashes across his heaving back burned.

There was no sign of the terrible being, no buzzing whine filling his head. The only sounds were the frantic pounding of his own heart and the gentle piping trill of birdsong. The little bower was, as always, alight with dancing specks of hazy sunlight; a warm, gentle haven of calm serenity completely devoid of any signs of the furious tempest that had almost claimed him.

He curled in on himself and stifled a sob.

There was no way out of here. This godforsaken glade was his beautiful prison.

xxxxx

Bobby and Sam sat around the kitchen table, looking through some of Bobby's oldest books.

"Don't come across faeries often," Bobby muttered, "Faerie lore is some of the oldest, darkest lore out there; can't remember the last time I had to open this book."

He sighed, "they're devious little bastards Sam, don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise."

They both looked up to see Tom walking toward them. He pulled up a chair between them and slumped heavily into it. "He's just had another of those episodes; gasping and thrashing like he's having a nightmare," he gave a long, pained sigh; "think he's okay now."

He looked across the table, catching a glance from Bobby, at the younger Winchester, who sat silently, staring at Bobby's book. He looked utterly despondent.

"Sam," Tom began; "I'm so sorry; I don't know why he will only talk to me, I wish …"

Bobby gently cut him off; "I think I might know Tom, gimme a moment."

Sam offered Tom a shaky smile, "it's okay Tom, really."

"Okay ladies," Bobby began, "this is what we know about the scheming little sonsofbitches, for what it's worth," he turned one of the pages and sneezed over the dust that was dislodged.

"Green is the colour of faerie; it's the colour of nature, and faeries are elemental creatures."

"Well, that would sure explain Dean's … I mean the changeling's skin colour," Tom agreed.

"Faerie is a general term for hundreds of different races of beings … brownies, imps, pixies, sprites, redcaps, elves, spriggans, boggarts, sidhe … and hundred of other races we've probably never even heard of; they all fall under the heading of faerie folk." Bobby picked up his hip flask and took a long swig, he offered the flask to Sam who shook his head, his eyes never leaving the table.

"and drows," continued Tom.

"and apparently drows," confirmed Bobby with a nod, "I suppose we at least know what we're dealing with."

Bobby pulled up another book, even bigger and dustier than the first; "faerie society is all about superiority; predominately superiority of one race over another, but also one family over another, even one individual faerie over another," he frowned in disapproval, "and for the record, even the basest most despised lowest caste of faerie is considered superior to us."

"Encouraging," Tom replied with an ironic nod, shooting a concerned glance across to Sam.

"In their society, the most exalted individuals are first born sons," he continued, "that includes us; the few humans they value would only be first born sons, some theorists say they won't or can't even acknowledge the existence of other siblings."

He watched as Sam looked up from the table for the first time as the penny dropped; "I'm not a first born son," he whispered; "that's why he blanks me."

Bobby nodded sadly; "and me."

They both looked at Tom; "I'm the eldest of four," he confirmed quietly.

Bobby nodded, "and that'll be why our little green friend's bonded with you."

"But," Bobby continued; "there's also a theory that faeries occasionally abduct first-born-sons, particularly ones they perceive as being the fittest and strongest specimens, as ..." Bobby, cleared his throat, hesitating before continuing; "... as breeding stock."

Tom and Sam both stared at him aghast.

"Breeding stock?" Sam spluttered in horror.

"It's only a theory," Bobby tried to reassure the younger man; "but, yeah. I guess they think it'll strengthen the bloodstock or somethin'."

"That's sick," Sam replied nauseously.

Bobby turned to another chapter in the book, "now, goin' back to the changeling; it seems that changelings are generally faeries of a lower caste who are routinely captured and used for all manner of unpleasant and dangerous tasks by superior races of faeries."

"Slaves," spat Tom in disgust, "that poor bastard up there said he was a slave."

Bobby nodded and a brief, reflective silence settled over the table before he continued.

"The changeling and it's human counterpart are connected, like, I don't know, almost like some kind of faerie umbilical cord between the two worlds," Bobby explained, his face falling solemn as he continued; "it means that those 'episodes', all that thrashing around up there? That means ..."

"It means Dean's suffering whatever's causing them; he's suffering really bad." Sam abruptly finished his sentence; "Bobby ... we've gotta help him," he pleaded, his eyes glazed in panic, "Perhaps if we killed that thing upstairs ..."

Bobby cut him off gently, raising his hands in a concilliatory gesture; "I'm really tempted Sam, but that thing upstairs is the only link we have to their world, his knowledge of that world might be the only chance we have to get Dean back."

The three men sank into a nervous silence.

"All the lore says that humans who eat and drink in the faerie realm will never be able to return to the real world, because they will just fade away with longing for the faerie world over months or even years;" Bobby explained, "to avoid that fate Dean will have to avoid eating and drinking at all costs."

Tom looked up at Bobby, "so to avoid fading away of a broken heart when we get him back, he'll shrivel up and dehydrate to death within days instead."

That's about the size of it," Bobby confirmed glumly, "either way, he's screwed if we don't do something and do it real soon."

"We've gotta find a way, Bobby for God's sake, we've got to help him," Sam thumped the table in barely contained fury.

Tom and Bobby knew how hard this was on the younger brother, and it broke their hearts to see him so perilously close to the edge.

Bobby swallowed hard, and when he looked up from the book, his eyes were swimming with tears.

"We'll do everything in our power, Sam; everything."

"I only hope it's not already too late."

xxxxx

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

As Dean opened his eyes, and squinted tearily through the pale sunlight, the first sensation he became aware of was soft fingertips stroking his back. The cool touch was gentle and full of care, and for a brief moment, he lost himself under the soothing caress.

It took only a moment for his terrible reality to come flooding back to him, and the full horror of his situation slammed into his traumatised body like a freight train.

He realised he was lying prone on the cot where this whole nightmare had begun, his face was buried into the scabby, stinking hide of that dead animal; it's rank, musty odour assaulted his nostrils and he clumsily shuffled onto his side trying to shift his face away from it.

He was so very dehydrated. His need had gone beyond mere thirst; his whole body cried out for water. He ached and cramped everywhere it was possible to ache and cramp. Opening his parchment-dry mouth, he tried to speak to the owner of the fingers that ghosted across his torn back, but no sound came out. He could manage nothing more than a hoarse croak.

His throbbing head spun queasily and his limbs felt leaden; he guessed he must look like crap. Rubbing his forehead, he swallowed painfully, but his mouth tasted of ash.

He could increasingly feel the sting of the wound down his back, and finally his fogged mind made the connection, and realised what those gentle fingers were doing.

He tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but a cool hand clasped his shoulder and gently, but firmly pushed him back down onto his belly.

"Be still my pet."

Something sticky and wet was being smeared over his lacerated back.

"This will close your wound," a female voice stated quietly.

His mind floated as a pall of foreboding descended over him, settling like a block of ice in his gut, but his senses were too blunted by his weakness to be able to process his thoughts.

He tried to look up again, and this time he saw her.

The same long mane of ivory hair tumbling over two short antlers, the same sharply arched cheekbones and the same cold eyes glimmering emerald in the hazy sunlight.

It was her.

xxxxx

A crashing wave of panic swept over him, and in spite of his frailty, he tried to scramble off the cot and get as far away as he could from the sadistic bitch, but his heavy, unco-ordinated limbs made his movements desperately sluggish. He felt her icy grip on his arm, pulling him back down onto the cot.

He tried to struggle, but his failing body surrendered.

"Getoff me," he panted furiously, squirming ineffectively beneath her hand.

Barely inconvenienced by his frantic protestations she continued to spread the cool salve across his back.

He managed to work an arm free, and swatted her hand away. "Don' freakin' touch me, bitch;" a hint of panic began to creep into his strained voice.

The princess released her grip on his arm and stood, turning to wipe her hands. She walked slowly around to the other side of the bed.

With callous disregard for her captive's outrage, she slipped her hands underneath his arms and hoisted him into a sitting position, pulling him back so that he was leaned back against her own body with one long slender arm wrapped across his chest, holding him firm.

His wounded back chafed against the brocade of her gown as he bucked and fought feebly in his unco-ordinated attempts to escape from her.

He felt her grip tighten.

"get away from me," he spat through clenched teeth.

"My pet, you are a fiesty one," a cold, but appreciative smile spread across her full lips, "so weak, and yet so spirited."

He slumped against her, utterly spent and panting miserably against an increasing nausea as the searing throb in his head increased, the last vestiges of strength in his failing body slipping away from him.

Closing his eyes, his swimming, unfocussed vision intensified the miserable nausea that was rising in the pit of his stomach, and he took a deep shuddering breath as he fought back threatening tears.

His heart sank when he realised he had become too dehydrated to produce any.

xxxxx

As he opened his eyes again, a pearlescent goblet appeared before his face.

"You will drink; I will have you strong."

Dean stared at the goblet and the clear, sparkling water that it contained. His parched body was crying out for the cool, lifegiving liquid, but his only lucid thought was a vague memory that if he drank from that cup he would be lost to his world and to Sammy forever.

He turned his head away from the goblet, clamping his sore, dry lips tightly closed as she pressed it to them.

Silently shaking his head, he felt droplets of the sweet water trickle down his chin.

Shivering miserably, he bit down on his lip so hard he drew blood; his hands curled into tight fists as he fought his body's natural self-preservation instincts, even the smell of the cool, sparkling water was nectar to his dehydrated body. He could have taken the goblet and drunk it dry ten times over, he could have bathed in the beautiful water, swum and dived into it's depths, but he couldn't.

If the whole scenario wasn't so horrific, it would have been comical; here was dying of thirst and the water in front of his face was undrinkable.

His head turned away as she tried to pry his lips open with the edge of the goblet.

"drink my pet …"

"No." he forced out the grunted word through clenched teeth.

"DRINK" a note of petulant anger crept into her voice.

He shook his head in silent fury.

The hand coiled round his chest moved up to grip his jaw, and icy fingers pulled his lips apart, thrusting the cup between them allowing some of the cold water to trickle between his clenched teeth.

He thrashed his head violently from side to side, fighting to spit the water out as he tried to dislodge her tortuously hard grip. Every scrap of willpower left in his fading body was thrown into trying not to swallow the beautiful, invigorating liquid.

In desperation, he threw his head back smashing the back of his skull into the princess' face.

Releasing his jaw, her hands flew to her shattered face, dropping the cup as she screamed through a torrent of foaming green blood in injured rage.

Tumbling off the cot, he rolled over onto the ground, his stomach lurching at the change in position. Drained by the burst of activity, the pain in his head constricted like a vice, forcing a dizziness over him as once again the nausea rose and he retched miserably into the clover.

Through his choking heaves, he could hear her furious shrieks. His legs weakly scrambled beneath him as he tried to crawl away, but within moments, she was looming over him.

Her blood-soaked hand reached down and curled round his neck.

Throwing him onto his back, she dropped to her knees, straddling him once again, and viciously raked her nails down his heaving chest.

"I will not be cheated," she hissed through the bloody spume, leaning in and clamping her own bleeding lips over his in an aggressive, loveless kiss.

Her sinuous tongue violated his mouth, the coppery tartness of her blood choking him as she as she gripped his neck with brutal force.

She pulled back out of the kiss and leaning down, traced her tongue along the line of the scratch she had carved into his chest, smiling dispassionately as he let out a hoarse cry at the burn of her bloody saliva.

"You are my prize," she snarled, slashing another line of fire down his chest; "when you have partaken of my hospitality, you will enjoy my attention every day. And I shall enjoy yours."

She reached over to where a silver pitcher full of water stood beside the cot, and lifted it, tipping it towards Dean's face. weakly shaking his head from side to side, he let out a gasping sob; he knew the battle was lost.

xxxxx

She suddenly jerked violently, arching backwards and letting out a choking scream. Dropping the pitcher, her scream tailed off into a hoarse, rattling wail.

Jolted back into some degree of awareness, Dean gaped as he squinted blearily, trying to formulate the blurred image that he thought he could see.

He blinked when he saw the tip of a bloodstained blade protruding through the front of her bodice.

Her convulsing body began to glow, green flames pouring from her eyes; brighter and brighter she burned, hotter and hotter until Dean was forced to shield his eyes. He squirmed weakly, recoiling from the force of the heat which was threatening to engulf him, then with a blazing white light, her body dispersed into a mist of glowing green sparks. A breathless screech echoed through the wisps of smoke which drifted across Dean's line of vision.

She was gone.

Still sprawled across the ground, shocked into silence and shaking violently, Dean's trembling fingers picked up the blade which was lying on the ground next to him. On closer inspection his fading vision could make out it wasn't a blade; it was a long shard of mirror glass stained with the princess' leaf-green blood, but which also bore traces of a thicker, darker stain.

It was then he looked up, noticing, for the first time the strange creature that stooped over him.

It stood at a level that might have reached Dean's chest; with a silky skin, black as obsidian, and long ivory-white hair that hung limply behind it's narrow ears; it managed to look both stocky and delicate at the same time. What captured Dean's attention most were soulful round eyes of the palest lavender which stared at him from beneath long white lashes.

The creature gave a heavy groan and stumbled toward Dean, and he realised that whatever it was, it was mortally wounded. A thick stain of black blood spread across the front of the loose, and strangely familiar grey T shirt it wore hanging down to just above it's knees.

Dean took in a long shuddering breath; "what the hell?"

The being's sharp features softened, and it reached out a bloodsoaked hand; long, sinuous fingers, black as the night.

"Wha-what happened?" Dean felt himself shuffling backwards, cringing at the dying creature's spidery touch. The movement brought back the unwelcome waves of nausea, and Dean rolled onto his side with a groan.

"She is dead," the creature's reedy, breathless voice confirmed, "there is only one thing pure and powerful enough to kill the Tua'tha ..."

Dean stared, beyond comprehension.

"... the blood of a willing sacrifice."

It was then Dean realised, the wound in the creature's chest had been self-inflicted by the shard of mirror glass.

"I am Lloth; I am here to send you back to your kinsmen."

xxxxx

tbc


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out a little about Tom's and Lloth's past as Bobby, Sam and Tom come to realise that not all faeries are bad.

Sitting on the floor in the corner of the darkened room, Sam stared, hollow-eyed, across at the figure in the bed. He leaned heavily against the wall, his desperate worry, at present, smothering his crushing exhaustion.

A plate of ham sandwiches sat on the floor beside him, untouched and stale; a testament to Bobby's repeated and unsuccessful attempts to encourage the younger man to look after himself, despite the circumstances.

Beside the bed sat Tom; patient, calm, never raising his voice or letting out so much as a sigh, he coaxed and cajoled, keeping Lloth talking, in so far as that was possible, trying to extract the slightest scrap of information that might help his missing friend.

The room had fallen silent for the last hour and Tom's eyes had finally begun to droop when suddenly, Lloth's voice broke the quiet.

"Tom …"

Tom jolted into alertness; "uh, what ... hey Lloth, what's up?"

"Trust."

"uh … trust, yeah … I trust you buddy."

He was rewarded with a shake of the head.

"Trust … Tom."

The meaning of Lloth's words hit home, "you trust me? Well I'm happy that you do, Lloth."

Lloth gazed up at Tom through Dean's glassy eyes; "Mirror."

Tom's brow furrowed; "mirror? You want a mirror?"

A brief nod.

He looked over Lloth's head to Sam who was already scrambling to his feet.

xxxxx

"Bobby!"

Bobby glanced up from the leather bound tome he was staring at and rubbed his weary eyes.

"What?"

"Something might be going down, Bobby … the changeling wants a mirror." Sam gasped; "it just said it trusts Tom, and then it said it wanted a mirror."

"The hell?" Bobby rose to his feet, groaning as he stretched stiff joints, "what's he want a mirror for?"

Sam shrugged.

"Perhaps there's more of Dean in him than we thought," Bobby smiled sadly; "that boy's never far away from a mirror."

A flicker of a smile crossed Sam's pallid face.

Bobby strode past him, beckoning; "c'mon, we can unscrew the one off the bathroom wall."

xxxxx

The two men stood in the bathroom as Bobby went to work on the mirror. As he undid the first two screws, Sam stood closer, ready to take the weight of the mirror.

He turned to Bobby as he worked; "you should see Tom in there, Bobby, he's amazing. He should have been a hostage negotiator."

Bobby began to work on the third screw, frowning at how rusty and stiff it had become; "funny you should say that son; he used to be in the police very many years ago; Police Medical Officer. That's how we got to know each other - over a few mysteriously eviscerated cadavers."

"Nice," Sam cocked an eyebrow.

Bobby continued, swearing under his breath at the unmoving screw; "I managed to keep him in blissful ignorance until one day one of those eviscerated cadavers calmly hopped off the gurney, pinned him against the wall and tried to throttle him."

Sam's eyes widened in shock, "what happened?"

"I sliced it's head off with a silver machete," replied Bobby calmly, grunting with satisfaction as the stubborn screw finally shifted beneath his screwdriver.

"Of course then I had to come clean," Bobby smiled as he remembered telling Tom the whole story of the hunting fraternity and the creatures they hunted.

"Did he believe you?" Sam asked, curious.

Bobby shrugged. "He'd just been half-strangled by a three day dead, decomposing corpse with half it's ribcage blown away and its brain in a jar the other side of the room." He paused briefly, stretching his back as he looked up at Sam; "kinda hard to be shocked by anything after that."

Sam managed a brief smile, "fair point!"

Bobby continued, as the fourth screw began to turn, "in fact, the thing that shocked Tom the most was that us hunters got no recognition and no support."

"Sounds like Tom," smiled Sam.

The mirror slid free of the wall and dropped into Sam's safe hands.

Bobby rinsed his rust stained hands; "three years after that, Tom was at a murder scene. Standard robbery; nothing supernatural or anythin', just humans being dicks to each other and he accidentally disturbed one of the bad guys who was hiding in a closet. The guy shot him point blank in the chest."

Sam gasped, "crap."

"It was bad, real bad," sighed Bobby, nodding as he thought back to the difficult time. "Tom almost died; bullet missed his heart, but tore one of his lungs up bad. He spent months in hospital, an' when he came out, he wasn't ever gonna be fit enough to carry on at the police department so they medically retired him. Gave him a real handsome pay-off, and that's what he used to set up his little clinic, just to support guys like us!"

Sam smiled. He was so glad they had found Tom.

Xxxxx

Sam handed Tom the mirror, and retired to stand unnoticed the other side of the room alongside Bobby.

Holding the mirror upright on his lap, Tom turned it so that both he and Lloth could see into it.

He gently patted the stone cold arm; "Lloth, here's a mirror for you."

Lloth looked up through Dean's eyes at Tom then back to the mirror, hesitating a moment before he thrust out a clenched fist and punched it. A fractal spiderweb of cracks burst across of the middle of the glass.

"What the hell?" Tom yelped in shock, jumping to his feet; Sam and Bobby both stepped forward, fully prepared to defend their friend.

"Lloth; what did you do that for?" Tom asked breathlessly, "I thought you trusted me?" he gasped, still shaking.

All three men in the room froze as an unfamiliar voice spoke: "Tom, my dear friend, it is far easier for me to communicate with you this way. I am deeply sorry if I caused alarm."

xxxxx

Looking across the room, Tom could see Sam and Bobby's mouths hanging open as they both stared in wide eyed amazement at the mirror.

He sat again, nervously tilting the mirror so that he could see into it, and his jaw joined Bobby's and Sam's on the floor when he saw the image that stared back at him.

Although the mirror was pointed at the changeling, it was not the sallow duplicate of Dean that stared back at him, but a completely different face.

The ebony black face, it's image distorted by the broken glass, stared out at him from glistening, pale lavender eyes; the biggest, most doleful eyes Tom had ever seen.

He eventually found his voice; "Lloth, is that you? Is that what you look like?"

The face in the mirror gave a faint nod and blinked it's soft pale eyes; long white lashes swept down onto it's high cheekbones. "Yes, this is the face of the Drow." The voice was thin and sharp, rather like the slightly angular, pointed face, but by no means weak.

"I was a Prince among my kin," Lloth began; so long ago my people lived in peace and prosperity in the mountains." He hesitated for a moment, taking a deep breath as if he were fortifying himself; "we were a peaceful race with no cause to make war with anyone. We were a race of thinkers, of makers and artisans."

The three men listened intently, making no attempt to interrupt.

"Then, a race called the Tua'tha came upon us to force us into servitude, but we refused to submit." The sad eyes looked up at Tom, the sadness within them was shattering. "We were a peaceful people but we were also a proud people. We chose death before slavery, and they were quick to oblige."

Sam gave a quiet gasp, glancing across to Bobby, stoney faced as he listened to the unravelling tale.

"They were ruthless; we were not warriors, and so were unable to defend ourselves," Lloth continued, his voice sinking to little more than a whisper; " they slaughtered my people without mercy. Everyone died beneath their hands … my friends, my queen, even my younglings ..."

He took a deep breath and those big lavender eyes dipped to the floor.

"... all gone."

"Goddamn sonofabitches," spluttered Bobby, red faced with fury.

"I am all that remains of my kin, and the only reason I did not follow them into the beyond is that the Tua'tha have placed an enchantment upon me to prevent me from taking my own life."

Tom gently took the changeling by the hand, and shook his head. Sam and Bobby could both see he was struggling to hold back tears.

"And so I have existed in servitude for countless ages, and then this; to be exiled to your world as a changeling. The ultimate degradation for any prince of the Drow."

Tom squeezed the hand, "I'm so sorry Lloth, I'm so sorry."

The ebony face in the mirror looked up again to meet Tom's swimming eyes; "it is the Tua'tha that hold your friend. I feel all of his suffering and it is intense. He is refusing sustenance but soon he will be too weak to resist."

The faintest of smiles ghosted across the strange face in the mirror as the pale round eyes stared up at Tom.

"Your attentions have been the first kindness I have received since the dark day, and for that I cannot state my gratitude."

"I wouldn't think to treat you any other way," replied Tom gently, looking over at Bobby and Sam.

"I wish to help you," stated Lloth suddenly; "I wish to return your friend to you. But I cannot do it alone."

xxxxx

Bobby glanced across at Sam who stifled a gasp, and they edged nearer the bed to listen more closely to the conversation.

"What do I have to do?" asked Tom.

"The transition between our two worlds is harsh," Lloth began, "and I am much weakened by years of ill use; even if I survived the transition to my world I would not have the strength to send your friend back.

"Tom, I will need you let me take some of your life force."

Sam and Bobby glanced at each other in alarm.

Tom nodded calmly; "okay, Lloth … will I die?"

Lloth shook his head; "no, you will sleep for a day and a night, but you will have provided me with the power I need to do all that I must do before I make the journey to the beyond."

Tom flinched; "you mean ... die?"

Lloth nodded calmly. "I must end my life to break the bond that exists between your friend and me. He cannot return to this world unless that bond is broken."

He continued; "your life force will also give me the strength I need to overcome the enchantment that stops me from releasing myself from this wretchedness."

Tom looked over to Sam and Bobby who leaned against each other looking stunned; his eyes widened with horror.

"Don't," he gasped, "don't make me send you to your death. There must be some other way to get Dean back."

Lloth shook his head with a calm smile; "there is no other way. I must die if you wish to see your friend again."

"B-but I'm a doctor, Lloth, a healer; I'm a preserver of life, not a taker of it." Tom looked aghast.

Lloth smiled sadly. "I welcome death. My kin are all gone and my body is diminished; all I have left is my pride. Please do not deny me that."

The big lavender eyes gazed up at Tom, and he realised the Prince had lowered himself to begging for this chance of release. "I no longer wish to exist alone and in slavery. If, by my death I can help your friend and hurt the Tua'tha, then it shall not have been an empty death, and the final flame of the Drow race shall be extinguished with honour."

Tom slumped; "this goes against every instinct I have," he swallowed hard, glancing across at Sam who was wiping his eyes; "I want to get Dean back; God knows I want it more than anything else in the world, But I don't want good people to die for it." He said in a small voice.

Lloth smiled out of the mirror, and pressed an ebony palm flat against the inside of the glass. "It is a kindness you shall be doing me, Tom."

An uncomfortable silence settled across the room.

"Will you help me to do this Tom?"

Sam and Bobby held their breath; it wouldn't be until later that Sam realised that Bobby was gripping his hand with a knuckle-crushing force.

When the response came, it was barely perceptible, but Tom gave a slow and grudging nod.

"Place your hand upon my brow," Lloth instructed; "tell your kinfolk to go to the faerie ring in the forest one thousand strides north of this house when the storm breaks. There you will meet your friend."

With that, the mysterious face slowly faded from view until Tom was left holding nothing but an ordinary broken mirror.

Placing the mirror on the floor beside him, Tom looked up in despair at Sam and Bobby, his hand hesitating for an age before he bit his lip, and lowered it to rest on the changeling's cold, dry brow. The two onlookers' hearts broke.

The changeling's chest swelled under his grey T shirt through a long sigh and the timid green eyes closed for the final time. Edging closer to the bed, Sam and Bobby both watched as the creature's breaths became more and more shallow, and his physical form began to fade, fainter and fainter until Tom's hand was resting on nothing more than fresh air.

They rushed forward and caught Tom as he slumped unconscious onto the bed.

No-one noticed the long, deadly shard of glass missing from the shattered mirror.

xxxxx

Dean cringed weakly as the creature touched his head; it's long narrow fingers, sticky with its own blood, trembling as it reached out; "Go back to your family as I shall, at last, go back to mine."

A blinding white light filled Dean's world.

xxxxx

tbc


	8. Chapter 8

Satisfied that Tom was settled and seemingly not in any danger, Bobby and Sam set out toward the forest under oppressively darkening skies. Picking their way clumsily through the underbrush, they gradually headed north as per the Drow's instructions.

They could feel the wind strengthening as they ventured deeper into the woods; "why is it always damn storms?" grumbled Sam, his voice disappearing into a particularly strong gust. "there was a storm when they took him, and now there's one when they're giving him back."

Bobby shrugged as he stepped over a fallen branch; "search me," he grunted; "they're elemental creatures, I suppose it makes sense that their actions can affect the elements."

"Nothing about these sonsofbitches makes sense," Sam replied sourly, pulling his collar up around his neck against the increasing chill, and glancing upwards uneasily as the trees around them groaned and thrashed in the gusting wind.

He paused, scowing as the rain started to fall.

They had been trudging through the pouring rain for about ten minutes when they found it; on the leaf-strewn floor of a small clearing in the forest. An almost perfect unbroken ring of toadstools.

"This is it;" Bobby's tired eyes lit up at the sight.

xxxxx

He could see the younger man was distracted; shuffling and fidgeting and staring blankly at the ring on the ground before them. Clasping a hand round Sam's arm, he stepped between him and the faerie ring attempting to yank him back into the here and now.

"Right boy, I know ya worried; we both are, but you gotta listen to me." He squinted through the squalling rain deep into Sam's distant eyes, unsure of whether he was making any inroads or not; "do not, under any circumstances, step into that thing; y'hear me?"

His soaked hair slicked to his scalp, Sam nodded absently, staring past Bobby's face into the circle; "Yeah, I hear you Bobby, I won't."

Bobby rolled his eyes; "don't step into it or touch the ground inside it in any way, 'cos if you do, you'll be taking Dean's place, understand?"

Exasperated and fearful by the lack of meaningful response, he shook Sam by the arm; "understand?" He snapped; "I ain't losin' you too, boy!"

Wiping rivulets of rainwater from his face, Sam turned to respond to Bobby, when suddenly both men lurched as a booming rumble of thunder rolled across the sky.

Bobby took a long deep breath as the rain intensified; "show time," he shouted over the howling gale, turning his face from the whipping rain.

Both men stared at the ground within the circle as it began to glow, faintly; gradually growing brighter and brighter until it was almost blinding.

They shielded their eyes from the intense glow as they saw a shape begin to form; at first, nothing more than a translucent ghost of an image, but gradually becoming stronger and more opaque, until a solid shape materialised in front of them.

They found themselves standing braced against the storm looking down at Dean, curled up on his side amongst the soaking leaf debris within the circle.

xxxxx

Letting out a gasp of delight, Sam dashed toward the unmoving figure, only to be yanked back by Bobby.

"What the hell did I just say, y'idjit?" he roared.

Sam Looked sheepishly at his feet, "sorry Bobby."

Shaking his head, Bobby swore under his breath as he gestured for Sam to kneel down on the edge of the circle.

Reaching into it, they were able to grasp Dean by the wrists and drag him out onto safe ground.

xxxxx

Sam knelt and frantically gathered Dean, already soaked by the downpour, up into his arms, a mantra of joy and reassurance tumbling out of his mouth like the rain tumbling out of the sky; "shhh, hey big brother; I've gotcha, thank God, you're safe, you're safe now … everything's gonna be fine ..."

Rocking back from his knees onto his butt, he completely disregarded the storm as he sat cross-legged on the soaking ground, cradling Dean's head into the crook of his neck, revelling in as much physical contact with his brother as he could manage. He frowned as he felt the fierce trembling that was racking Dean's body and pulled him in closer, trying to wrap his long arms around Dean's bare back like a comfort blanket.

He was intoxicated by the soft warmth of Dean's body, the scratch of his stubble, the faint odour of his sweat and his dirty hair, the moist heat of his harsh breaths huffing against Sam's collarbone; all the little things that proved this was the real Dean; a living, breathing, heart pumping, red blooded human; not a cold, lifeless changeling.

Without a doubt, this was Sam's brother.

xxxxx

Dazed and half blinded by the faerie's incandescent magic, Dean felt himself nestling; half sitting and half laying within a tangle of long limbs.

Water was pouring down on top of him, tormenting his desperate thirst, but more importantly a voice was talking to him. It seemed to be floating through the air, riding on the storm a long, long way away, saying things that sounded kind and nice. Surely it couldn't be her; she had sounded kind at first but she was dead, wasn't she? Dean had seen the bitch explode into green flame.

He bristled, feeling goosebumps skittering across his back which weren't just caused by the chilling rain; he trembled at the thought of her, until he felt the comforting arms tighten around him.

A hand worked it's way up his neck threading fingertips through his drenched hair, kneading his scalp.

There was the voice again; it seemed closer and clearer now. No it wasn't her, it couldn't be her; it was a man's voice, it was using his name.

It sounded so familiar and comforting.

Dean clutched at the first comforting thing he could feel, fisting his cold fingers around some soft material, twisting it tightly to maintain a firm grip.

He wasn't sure where he was, but he wanted to stay; he liked it here. These were kind hands, he knew these hands wouldn't hurt him.

He shivered again, this time from the cold rain pouring down his back, contrasted against the warmth of the wet body curled around him.

xxxxx

As Dean shivered slightly, Sam hushed him softly. Relishing the feel of Dean's hand clutching at his shirt he tightened his grip around his back, pulling him in even closer and looked up through the easing rain into a brightening sky; "thank you Lloth, bless you, thank you so much;" he muttered quietly in between soft reassuring whispers to Dean. Barely able to contain himself he felt hot tears mingling with the cold rain on his face, and he really didn't care.

Bobby, having briefly stepped away to give the brothers some privacy, knew he had to get things moving. Although the storm was abating as rapidly as it had begun, they were all still cold and dripping wet; plus they really needed to assess Dean's condition. Sure he was back, but they still had no idea what those faerie bastards had done to him; they didn't know how much of him was back. He knelt down beside the two and placed a hand flat across Dean's back, grimacing as he saw the deep gashes there, but consoled by the reassuring warmth of the skin beneath his calloused palm.

He unfolded a blanket he had brought along with them, spreading it over Dean's back and tucking it in tight around his sides. The blanket was already damp from the rain, but he guessed Sam's body heat would soon take care of that. Cracking the lid off a bottle of water, he lifted it toward Dean's face; "hey, wanna drink son? I'll bet ya real thirsty ain't you?" He frowned in dismay when Dean buried his face in Sam's chest, shaking his head.

"Hey son, c'mon, it's only me;" Bobby murmured softly, his flat palm softly kneading undamaged portions of Dean's back; "it's ya crazy ol' uncle Bobby, I ain't gonna hurt ya with crappy faerie water."

He looked up into Sam's concerned face as he tried once again to coax Dean to drink, growing more and more fearful as Dean recoiled from the bottle; "wha' the hell did they do to him?" he mouthed to the younger man.

Sam threaded his long fingers through Dean's soaked hair; "hey dude, it's me; it's your Sammy, you're safe now. He gently eased Dean's head back into his outstretched palm and saw that his eyes were tightly closed; "Hey bro' you gonna open those eyes and look at me?"

There was a barely perceptible shake of the head.

xxxxx

Dean's mind raced, his eyes hurt. Don't make me drink. Wanna go home, Sammy'll be worried sick. So thirsty, hurts all over; all be over soon ...

Dean tightened his grip on the material in his fist, shaking his head.

That voice again, closer now, right above his head. The voice belonged to the person who was holding him who was trying to force him to drink.

A rush of memories and realisations flooded over him.

He knew that voice, it was a good voice. It swept over him, warmer and more comforting than the blanket across his back.

He could smell the faint odour of the nervous damp body folded around him; a familiar and safe esscence that Dean knew only too well, a faint cocktail of soap and sweat, coffee and cheap detergent.

Finally, Dean's senses clicked into place. He knew who it was holding him.

And for the first time he felt safe.

xxxxx

Sam continued to stroke his brother's scalp, reassuring and calming. "C'mon Dean; have a drink just for me, please?"

It took an age, but eventually the eyes flickered open, focussing slowly on Sam's face.

"S'mmy?"

"Yeah bro', it's me;" Sam couldn't hold back the tears and made no attempt to hide them; "hey Dean, you have no idea how glad I am to see you," his hand strayed from the back of Dean's head to the curve of his jaw, "Oh God;" he sobbed in joyful relief, clutching Dean's limp form hard to his chest again.

"Sam, Bobby ..." The voice was raw with lack of use and tortuous thirst.

Bobby prompted Sam with the water, "try him again, see if he'll take it from you."

Sam spoke softly; "You gonna try some water bro'?"

Dean's face tilted up to look blearily at Sam again and he gave an incoherent moan which was neither a positive or a negative.

"C'mon Dean, please don't make me take you to hospital."

He offered Dean the bottle again, pressing it gently to his lips.

After a brief hesitation, Dean's lips latched around the neck of the bottle and began to drink.

Sam and Bobby watched Dean's throat convulsing as the pure cool water went down; his eyes closed in a bliss that looked almost painful.

The desperate gasping gulps were like sweet music.

He drank, and drank, only stopping when Bobby carefully pried the bottle away from him.

"We can't let him drink it all at once, it'll only come straight back up again;" he explained quietly to Sam as Dean's frantic eyes searched for the bottle, "I'll give him a few more mouthfuls in a moment."

xxxxx

Eventually Bobby stood, groaning as his tired knees protested the damp and the movement.

"C'mon Sam," he smiled, patting the younger man's back; "we're all soaked an' freezin' - let's get him back home in the warm and dry so we can get a good look at him."

xxxxx

tbc


	9. Chapter 9

Gathering Dean in close, Sam leaned heavily on Bobby's solid support as he heaved himself to his feet.

"C'mon bro' lets get you home."

Ideally, from a point of view of the long-term preservation of his spine, not to mention his brother's dignity, Sam considered picking Dean up into a fireman's lift; but without knowing the extent of any damage beyond that which could be seen, he decided the only safe option would be to carry Dean back to the house in his arms.

He wasn't entirely sure how aware Dean was of his surroundings; he still wasn't entirely coherent, and Sam guessed that was through a combination of hunger, thirst, shock and disorientation. He also considered wryly that might be a blessing of sorts given that Dean would probably murder him in his sleep if he ever realised that Sam had carted him half a mile through the woods like a blushing bride.

It was only after Sam had hoisted his soaked and shivering brother into his arms that he remembered how damn heavy he was; it was like lifting a limp and soaking solid block of lead.

Unbalanced by his burden, Sam took a few staggering steps forward before his knees buckled.

"You gonna be alright?" Bobby reached out to steady Sam, "it's a long way back to the house," he added with concern.

Sam nodded unconvincingly, and took a few more faltering paces forward.

"Pu' me down."

The voice was hoarse and weak with lack of use; "gon' h-hurt y'self."

Sam's eyes settled on his brother's face; "but Dean, you can't walk all the way back to the house."

"I'll m-manage," was the croaked response; "gon' break y'back carryin' me …"

He turned to Bobby; "drink firs'."

Sam cautiously lowered Dean to the ground, holding him close to keep him upright as he reached out to take the bottle Bobby offered with a shaking hand.

"don' drink it too …"

Dean emptied it in two mammoth gulps.

"... quick;" Bobby sighed.

He glanced at Sam and shrugged, "well at least he's drinking - that's gotta be good," and tried to bury a lingering sense of unease for Sam's sake.

Together, Sam and Bobby shouldered Dean, and wrapping supporting arms around his battered torso, half led, and half carried him back to the house between them.

xxxxx

Setting Dean onto the couch, Bobby dashed off to the kitchen, leaving Sam to make his brother comfortable with a pile of musty towels and bedlinen they had excavated from the back of Bobby's closet earlier. Easing a pillow down behind Dean's back, Sam helped him to settle himself back against the arm of the couch, and spread a threadbare blue towel across his chest and shoulders, gently patting the chilling dampness from his skin.

"How ya doin, dude?" Sam ghosted a thumb over Dean's clammy forehead, wiped wet hair back off his face with the towel as he did so.

Dean nodded, "'kay," he mumbled, burrowing down into the pillow.

His brow furrowed as he regarded Sam; "y'soaked, gon' get sick ..." he grunted, pulling at Sam's wet T-shirt.

Sam smiled, "I know dude, Bobby's soaked too; we'll dry off in a bit," he rubbed the towel across his own dripping mop before lifting Dean's feet onto the couch. "We're stayin' down here tonight; Tom's in your bed."

Dean opened his eyes, perplexed.

"Long story," Sam smiled, trying to rub some warmth into Dean's frigid feet. He found himself unable to look away from his brother's pain tightened face; "man, it's so good to have you back."

Eventually, when his eyes dropped from Dean's face, he cringed as he got a good look for the first time at the mass of small angry wounds peppering his chest.

"Jeez Dean; what the hell happened to you? These look like animal bites and scratches."

Dean visibly shrank, curling his arms across his chest and shaking his head; "long story," he whispered, reaching out for the glass of orange juice Bobby thrust into his hand.

"Drink it slowly" Bobby instructed gruffly and was promptly ignored.

xxxxx

Bobby gave Dean a moment to drink the juice, then gently squeezed his shoulder; "lean forward son, wanna take a look at those slashes down your back."

He frowned when he felt Dean's muscles tense beneath his touch.

"S'okay Bobby," Dean looked up at Bobby without actually making eye contact, "it's fine."

Bobby sighed, "yeah, because you're such a good judge of what's best for ya;" he smiled sadly, "c'mon son, humour me here."

Dean hesitated, wincing as he reluctantly leaned forward into Sam's supporting arms. He nervously drew his knees up to his chest.

The last traces of oozing blood had stained three faint crimson stripes down the pillow.

Bobby's brow furrowed as he traced the lines of the gashes with a calloused fingertip; "what's this green shit all over it? Looks like someone's been smearin' mint sauce over ya back."

It was then Sam noticed Dean was becoming agitated, feeling his heart racing as he held his shoulders. He leaned in closer; "Dean, you okay man?"

"Please, Sammy; please, jus' leave it ... don' wanna talk 'bout it," Dean looked up at Sam without actually making direct eye contact.

Sam could see Dean's clenched fists trembling slightly as his arms hugged his bent legs.

He glanced over Dean's hunched back to Bobby who shrugged, concern written all over his face.

"Okay son," Bobby reassured, "if that's what ya want, no more talkin', But ya gotta let us clean you up ..." the 'please' on the end of the request was let unsaid; Bobby didn't want to put unnecessary pressure on Dean by pleading.

When no answer was forthcoming, Bobby continued to coax his unwilling patient, his concern increasing as he saw the elder Winchester's agitation; "these cuts are gonna get infected if we don't clean them up soon."

Sam's hand slipped across the back of his brother's shoulders in a loose hug. He had no idea what ordeal Dean had been through over the days he was away, but he was scared; scared on Dean's behalf. He had seen Dean come back from hunts shocked, angry, injured and bloody, even tearful; but in all the years they had hunted together Sam had never seen him so deeply and helplessly traumatised.

Dean looked up at Sam and for the first time made eye contact. The terror in his empty eyes chilled Sam to the bone.

Sam's fragile control crumbled and he pulled Dean into a tight hug, fighting back angry tears; "Oh God Dean, what happened to you? What the hell did those freaky bastards do to you?"

The question was rhetorical and Dean's only answer was a muffled grunt into Sam's shoulder.

Bobby crouched down at Dean's head, grimacing as his knees crackled at the exertion; he ruffled Dean's damp crown, "c'mon son, we'll get done cleanin' you up then I'll make you some soup, huh? Need to get some food inside you."

No response was forthcoming.

"d'y want another drink?"

A nod into Sam's shoulder.

Sam sat silently, holding and calming his brother, relishing the slowing of his heartbeat.

"Whatever this is Dean, we'll fix it, okay?"

xxxxx

Bobby came back into the room clutching a bottle of Gatorade. A bowl of warm, disinfectant scented water was cradled in his arm; his first aid kit balanced on top of it. Sam stared up into the older man's grizzled face and could see he was worried sick.

"Okay kid," he said lightly, his voice wavering as he tried to convey a calm which was clearly not there; "let's get this done real quick then we can leave you alone, okay?"

Sam felt Dean stiffen again beneath his touch, hand grasping Sam's arm tightly.

"Hey man, you know Bobby's an expert at this stuff, he'll have you patched up before you even know it," Sam did his best to reassure the spooked figure in his arms.

Bobby brought a warm, wet cloth to bear against Dean's back and Sam felt him arch miserably away from Bobby's touch and the sting of the disinfectant.

Bobby worked as swiftly as he could, longing to find out what on earth had caused the gashes on Dean's back; they were so sharp and clean they could have been made by a razor.

As he worked, he glanced over Dean's rigid shoulder at Sam's worried face.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Bobby knew that the wounds should have been stitched, but there was no point now; they had bled out all they were going to bleed, and anything as intensive as stitches would probably just about finish Dean off right now.

Bobby pinched the bridge of his nose, his concern rising like a nausea in his throat; Dean's heartbeat was racing again, his back thrumming beneath Bobby's careful hands.

Sam could feel Dean squirming away from Bobby's touch, becoming more and more distressed; shallow breaths coming faster and harsher.

"Please;" he muttered, arching away from Bobby's gentle touch

"please don' touch me …"

I'm almost done, son," reassured Bobby, trying to work both gentler and faster.

… _she touched my back_ …

Sam could feel Dean's breathing hitch, his heart racing as he tried to wriggle away from Sam's grip.

"Bobby …" Sam called to the older man who had finally finished the job, dropping the cloth into the bowl.

Dean sat up rapidly, shaking violently, wide eyed and pallid; clutching his chest as he sucked in rapid and shallow breaths.

… _she was touching my back; scratching me_ … 

"Dean?" Sam couldn't believe what he was seeing.

... _fingers like burning ice on me; oh God, she's touching my back … get off bitch, get off me_ ...

This was a full blown panic attack; something Sam had never seen his brother suffer and, he decided there and then, something he never wanted to see again.

Pale as a living death, Dean quaked in Sam's arms, clawing frantically at thin air with trembling, unco-ordinated hands.

"don' touch me … she hurt me … don' hurt me ..." he gasped between terrified, rasping breaths.

Sam slid off the couch dropping onto his knees and clutched Dean tighter; "Hey Dean, hey, hey; What's wrong, man? C'mon, what's wrong?"

His words went unheard as Dean tumbled off the couch onto the floor, flailing arms, trying to fend off Sam's comforting touch; "she was scratching me … that's what she was doing … hurting … so cold …" his words, incoherent and inarticulate between harsh wheezing breaths.

"DEAN" Sam grasped both Dean's arms, trying to hold him still; "Dean, look at me, look at me; you're safe, you're with Bobby and me."

Bobby looked distraught that he had somehow been the trigger for this episode, but managed to gather his senses enough to dash into the study to find a paper bag.

Sam fought to calm Dean. He may have been half starved and dehydrated but he sure hadn't lost any of his strength. Trying to soothe his panic-sticken brother, Sam whispered "you're safe Dean, you're safe … 'she's' not here …" a calming, repeating mantra which was currently having no effect.

Dean clawed at his throat and fought as he struggled to take in air.

"Don't touch me; don't touch my back …"

... _hurting, burning_ ...

He could feel the walls of the room closing around him, the smothering arms that held him. Gaping, he fought the gulping, yawning breaths which overpowered him, constricting his chest and suffocating him.

"Dean; DEAN." Sam held his brother tight and stared deep into the glazed panic-blinded eyes.

He didn't see Bobby dash up behind him, and thrust a paper bag over Dean's face.

"C'mon kid, slow it down … there ya go…"

Sam watched as Bobby, leaning across him, held the paper bag tight over Dean's nose and mouth coaxing him to calm down.

Sam looked into Dean's pebble-wide fear-glazed eyes, peering back at him from over the paper bag; "Dean, listen to me; you're hyperventilating;" he reached round Bobby, pressing his hand flat against Dean's convulsing chest, "listen to Bobby, dude, you need to slow your breathing down." His calm voice betrayed his own distress at seeing his brother in this condition.

Dean's eyes latched onto Sam, and finally registered a flicker of recognition.

"That's great, son, slow it down …" Bobby encouraged softly.

"Doin' great bro'," Sam reassured," he took Dean's shaking hand and pressed it against his own chest, "c'mon, breathe with me, slow it down dude."

Gradually, Dean's desperate heaving gulps slowed to deep, shuddering breaths beneath the paper bag.

"that's great dude, keep it up," Sam soothed, feeling Dean's heart pounding beneath his flat hand.

Eventually Bobby removed the paper bag to reveal Dean's gaunt, tear-stained face.

"Heck kid, what ya tryin' to do? Give me a damn stroke?" he ruffled the side of Dean's head, "idjit."

Sam smiled weakly at Dean, who was busy wiping his nose on the back of a shaking hand. Blinking to dislodge the tears which clung to his lashes, Dean dropped his eyes in embarrassment.

Sam smiled, and rubbed Dean's arm. "Hey, what was all that about, dude?"

Dean swallowed back a shaky breath, and shook his head, unable to speak.

Sam squeezed Dean's shoulders; "s'okay bro' you can tell us when you're ready."

Dean wondered silently if he would ever be ready.

xxxxx

tbc


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night of reflection ...

In the relative calm that settled after the traumatic episode, Sam and Bobby both took the opportunity to change into dry clothes, neither of them wanting to spend a moment longer than absolutely necessary out of the sight of the spooked Winchester.

Bobby's first job after refreshing himself and checking on Tom who had been largely forgotten in the earlier furore, was to head out into the kitchen to prepare some soup. Standing over the stove, he was lost in a haze of tomato soup scented steam when Sam ambled out to join him.

"Dean needs a drink," he announced economically, clutching an empty glass.

"Okay," Bobby nodded.

Sam filled the glass and walked back past Bobby. He stopped in his tracks.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Bobby looked up from the tiny yellow jar he was holding; "I'm jus' mixing a little mustard in the soup."

Sam cocked an eyebrow; "why?"

Bobby took a deep breath; "you gotta admit Sam, something's not right with Dean out there, an' I jus' wanna check – satisfy myself, y'know?"

Sam nodded, not really knowing at all.

"Faeries hate mustard seed, it repels the hell outta them," explained Bobby; "it's one of the few things all the lore books seem to agree on, so If any of those freaky little bastards are possessing or controlling him we'll soon know."

He mixed a spoonful of mustard into the simmering soup.

It seemed like a sound plan; Sam nodded his agreement.

"It's what they do," Bobby snorted; "they mess with people's minds, the evil little scumbags. If it's not some kind of faerie possession, we can probably safely assume it's good old-fashioned post-traumatic stress. God alone knows what that boy went through."

Both men stood for a moment and watched the hypnotic bubbling of the red liquid in the pan.

"He okay?" grunted Bobby.

Sam shrugged; "he's calmed down, still not sayin' much though."

Bobby carefully poured the soup out into a three faded blue bowls, and handed one on a tray to Sam, together with a crusty bread roll; "c'mon, Sam - keep your fingers crossed."

Bobby followed Sam into the room with the two other bowls, but his eyes remained only on Dean.

Sam sat himself beside Dean and carefully handed him the tray containing the glass of water together with the bowl and bread.

Dean looked up at him; "thanks," he muttered.

Sam noticed his eyes drift out of focus, and a skitter of alarm tickled up his spine; "you okay?"

"Yeah," Dean responded with a sigh, "jus' can' see it very well."

"That'll be the dehydration," Bobby jumped in before Sam had a chance to panic, "that'll work itself out as you get more fluids down ya."

Dean lifted the spoon to his mouth, hesitating nervously as the two men stared intently at him.

"Startin' with that soup," Bobby continued bluntly.

Dean obediently spooned the soup into his mouth; unaware that Sam and Bobby were both holding their breath as he did so.

"S'good," he concluded, the tip of his tongue sweeping a stray scarlet drop from his lower lip, "real tasty, thanks."

He ate enthusiastically, as both Sam and Bobby let out unified sighs of relief before starting their own meals.

xxxxx

Later that night, Bobby had gone to bed after once again checking on Tom. He had left the brothers downstairs; Dean sprawled out, asleep face-down on the couch, Sam reclined in an armchair across the room.

The light on the landing had barely been switched off before Sam was dragging cushions and stray bedlinen across the room to settle himself on the floor beside the couch.

He lay on his back, listening to Dean's soft breaths muffled by the pillow into which his face was buried, the creaking springs as his weight shifted on the couch, then the thing that Sam was waiting for; a whisper.

"Sammy …"

Sam smiled; "what?"

"Jus', thanks."

"Thanks? What for?"

"Thanks for not giving up on me."

The words turned Sam's blood to ice; "why would we do that?"

There was a brief silence before Dean continued; "because I'd given up on me. Thought I'd never see you again."

Sam shuddered at the emptiness in Dean's voice; "nah," he replied, injecting a levity into voice that wasn't there; "it'd take more than some stupidass smurf to come between us."

Dean huffed bitterly, "yeah;" he whispered unconvincingly.

Sam, against his better judgement, reached out to take Dean's hand which was conveniently hanging off the side of the couch.

"Dude, these little bastards they, they mess with your mind," Sam reassured, "Bobby said that; they toy with you and drive you nuts. It's how they get their stupid vindictive faerie kicks."

He rubbed his thumb across the back of Dean's hand; "well, they messed with the wrong humans this time, huh?"

Dean didn't respond.

"You're safe now, back with us."

"Yeah," Dean's response was barely a whisper as he slowly withdrew his arm folding it back up under his chest.

Sam settled back as a brief silence fell across the room.

"Wanna talk about it?" he asked cautiously.

Dean gave a deep swallow; "you ok?" The classic Dean Winchester subject change.

Sam sighed, the therapy he was desperate to give would have to wait a bit longer; "I am now we've got you back."

Dean heaved himself up, amidst a symphony of creaking, groaning springs, so he was resting on his side rather than his front. "She … it … she said you were 'distracted'. I was scared they'd hurt you."

Typical Dean. He was lost in some nightmarish faerie dreamworld, and he was scared someone had hurt his brother.

Sam leaned up on his elbow, echoing Dean's change in position, and took a deep breath.

"They sent a changeling," he began; "damn thing looked just like you Dean, in every minute detail. It had the tattoo, an' your freckles an' scars, even the tiny ones, in all the right places."

"Lucky changeling," interrupted Dean dryly.

Sam felt his lips curl into a smile; "the only thing that wasn't right was that it was stone cold and pale green."

Dean hesitated …

"Green?"

Through the darkness Sam could see Dean's nose wrinkle in disgust.

"Ew."

"Took us ages to realise it wasn't actually you with something awful done to you."

"How'd you find out?"

"Tom," began Sam, "Bobby was with Tom when I first called, and the changeling bonded with him; told him everything."

Dean looked almost indignant; "why Tom? Why not you?"

"Tom's a first born son;" Sam explained simply; "the only humans faeries can interact with. Bobby and me aren't."

Dean nodded; "that'd explain why they fixated on me then."

Sam warmed to his theme; "Tom was fantastic Dean, you should have seen him; he put the changeling completely at ease then it decided it wanted to help us and get revenge on the sonsofbitches that took you."

"Revenge for making him a changeling?"

"Kinda," Sam replied, "that and revenge for slaughtering his entire race except him."

"Shit!"

"He came from a race of faeries called the Drow, fairly harmless ones by the sound of it," Sam explained; "he was their king or prince or somethin' and after they slaughtered his entire race including his wife an' children they kept him alive and in slavery to humiliate and degrade him."

Dean thought for a moment; "that was the little black dude?"

"That's right," Sam smiled, "you saw him? So did we, he did something weird with a broken mirror so we could see his real face."

Listening silently, Dean nodded slowly.

"Then he said he wanted to help you because he'd have to die to help you and he wanted to die; but he wanted his death to do some good, you know, to be honourable. So by releasing you he would upset those bastards that took you and killed all the other Drows;" Sam shook his head sadly, "no wonder he wanted revenge, they murdered his kids, man."

Sam looked up at Dean; "I'm telling' you dude; he damn near broke my heart when he was tellin' us his story an' especially after I was just about ready to kill him the night before if that's what it took to get you back."

Another silence descended for a few moments.

"Anyway, dude, that's why Tom's asleep in your bed. Lloth had to take some of his life force to have the strength to make the trip back to their world and send you back here."

Dean thought for a moment; "Lloth?"

"The little black dude," confirmed Sam.

"Oh;" Dean hesitated, "will Tom be okay?"

"I guess so," Sam responded, "Lloth said he would sleep for a day and a night. If that's true he should wake up tomorrow afternoon."

Dean's eyes narrowed; "can you trust him?"

Sam shrugged; "Lloth? It was a question of having to, Dean, we had no other choice;" Sam explained; "but he kept his word when he said he would help you."

For the first time, a flicker of a smile crossed Dean's face, "he did more than that, dude; he got his revenge in style," he replied.

"How come?"

Dean shifted with a grunt to lean closer to Sam; "he stabbed himself with a bit of the broken mirror, and before he sent me back, he stabbed her …" Dean hesitated uneasily; "… them. He said the only thing pure and powerful enough to kill them is the blood of a willing sacrifice," he added with satisfaction; "and it sure as hell was."

Sam felt tears pricking the back of his eyes. Poor Lloth; poor, wretched, lonely, grief-stricken Lloth. Sam hoped so much he was at peace now.

xxxxx

Dean shifted back down onto the couch with a yawn, and settled back down, grimacing at the discomfort of the wound down his back.

A moment later the stray arm dropped limply back off the couch to the floor.

Sam smiled inwardly as he answered the unspoken invitation, and gently grasped the hand.

"Gon' grow ovaries one day …" Dean murmured, making no attempt to dislodge Sam's comforting touch, as a fog of sleep began to descend.

"You know, Dean, when you're ready …"

Dean cut him off mid sentence. "I know, thanks Sammy."

Sam lay awake, watching Dean settling and his body gradually relaxing as sleep claimed him.

xxxxx

Early morning sunlight filtered hazily through threadbare green curtains as Bobby trudged, yawning into the living room.

He scratched his head under his cap, stopping and glancing over the back of the couch.

He smiled broadly as Dean stirred woozily, rubbing weary eyes with backs of his hands.

"Hey son," he announced his presence with a gentle tap of the hand against Dean's upturned elbow.

"Bobby!" Dean flinched at the touch.

"How ya doin', boy?"

"Okay I think …" Dean replied hoarsely.

"Eyes better?"

"Yeah, I can see you clearly now."

"Well I can see you clearly, an' ya look like crap!"

Dean smiled crookedly, "thanks, back at you, Methuselah."

Under normal circumstances, such cheek would have been rewarded with a hearty slap upside the head. Bobby simply smiled, encouraged by the brief flash of spirit, daring to believe that Dean might have turned a corner.

They both looked down at Sam, still lost in a deep sleep. Dean looked up at Bobby; "I'm guessin' he didn't get much sleep?"

"None at all," remarked Bobby, "none at all;" he shook his head regretfully at the memory before snapping back into the present. He patted Dean's shoulder; "I'm cookin' breakfast – wan't some?"

Dean rubbed his tired eyes again; "yeah gonna go an' have a shower first."

"Okay," Bobby smiled warmly at the younger man; "egg on toast okay?"

Dean stared at him; "no bacon?"

Bobby's eyes narrowed dangerously. "No, princess, no bacon," he snorted; "too salty, ya can have some tomorrow when yer got y'fluid intake back to normal."

Dean grumbled ingraciously, but conceded grudgingly that the older man was talking sense.

He slid clumsily off the couch wincing with every movement, careful to try to step over his sleeping brother, resolutely determined not to wake him and hobbled rubber-legged out of the room.

"Need a hand?" Bobby asked quietly.

"No – I got it."

Bobby smiled, knowing when to back off; "okay son, take it easy on the stairs."

"Yes Mom."

xxxxx

Bobby wasn't stupid. He knew that within moments of Dean's departure Sam would be awake looking for his brother, and sure enough, when Sam woke blearily sitting up with a stretch, a steaming mug of coffee appeared in front of him.

Sam took the drink; "thanks Bobby."

He looked over the top of the mug at the empty, rumpled bedclothes on the couch.

"Where's Dean?"

"Upstairs havin' a shower," Bobby's voice drifted through from the kitchen.

Sam sat up, alertness snapping into him; "you let him go upstairs alone to have a shower?"

Bobby appeared from the kitchen, loaf of bread in hand, and let out a long sigh; "Sam, he's not going to drown in the shower pan in four inches of water."

"But …"

"Sam," Bobby began calmly, "I know ya worried about him; hell, we all are; but if he's to get over this, he needs time alone to work through it as much as time around people who care about him."

Sam opened his mouth to argue, but Bobby cut him off.

"Now stop ya frettin', and come an' help me with breakfast."

Sam knew that tone, he knew the conversartion was over. He also knew Bobby was right.

The voice of reason had spoken again, and Sam followed it meekly into the kitchen with a wry shake of the head.

xxxxx

Both men busied themselves listening to the morning radio show as they prepared breakfast.

A breakfast which ended up scattered all across the kitchen floor as a horrific cry echoed from the bathroom.

xxxxx

tbc


	11. Chapter 11

Both men thundered frantically up the stairs towards the bathroom. Sam was the first to reach the door, roaring his frustration on finding it locked.

"Dean…" he shouted over the muffled hiss of the shower. Furiously rattling the handle and receiving no response, he glanced across at Bobby who stood grey faced and panting next to him.

Sam rattled the handle again, kicking the door in his desperation.

"Sorry Bobby," he muttered, knowing what had to be done; Bobby nodded, unhesitant.

Sam flung his whole weight behind his shoulder against the door and it burst free of the frame, scattering whirling splinters across the steam-filled room.

"Dean!"

Both men dashed into the room, clambering over the splintered wreckage of the door, Sam's head whipping from side to side as he scanned the room.

He eventually threw back the shower curtain, peering through the streaming shower to see Dean, burrowed into the corner of the stall, cowering and clearly insensible with a terror that Sam couldn't even imagine, his arms flailing helplessly before him fending off something unspeakable.

There was nothing there.

xxxxx

Oblivious to the water that was still pouring down over him, Dean's mouth yawned a silent cry, punctuated by choking, spluttering pleas … "no … please …"

Sam reached in and turned off the shower and stepping into the stall, crouched down into the cramped space next to his brother.

"Dean," he whispered softly, daring to reach out and touch his brother's shoulder.

Dean let out a yelp and burrowed lower and further into the corner than a man of his size should ever have been able to.

His saucer-wide, glazed eyes fixed unblinking onto a spot somewhere above Sam's head.

"Dean!" Sam raised his voice, trying hard not to sound angry or threatening.

He looked back up at Bobby who stood leaning weakly on the shower wall looking crushed.

"Dean, it's me; it's your Sammy," Sam tried to reach Dean; to pull him out from within the quaking shell in the corner. When no response was forthcoming, he tried again; "look at me dude, you're hallucinating or having some kind of flashback."

He reached over and tried to pull Dean in close beside him; startled when Dean resisted, fighting furiously against him with a hoarse cry of fear.

xxxxx

Dean's world was blinding light.

The tall, sharp-faced being that loomed over him, shaded into silhoutte by the burning incandescence surrounding it glared at him through the palest ice-green eyes; inky black pupils narrowed to sharp, menacing slits.

The broad spread of it's weathered grey antlers rose from it's high silver hairline, hanging with aging ribbons of shrivelled velvet; their long narrow tines spreading almost the width of the stall in which Dean was trapped.

"My daughter is dead because of her misplaced love for you; and now my people fade and die – their hearts are broken by the loss of their princess."

"She didn't love me," cried Dean in horror; "she abused me – she RAPED me …" he sobbed furiously.

Long, apple-green fingers emerged from an over-long linen sleeve and reached out to touch the cowering figure beneath them.

"I am not so delicate as my people; and I will not embrace my end until you pay for the grievous injury you have done to me," a terrible sneer spread across thin, grey lips; "I will have my sport and you will beg for death before the end."

Dean shook his head frantically; "please don't take me back … oh, God please not that …"

The creature lowered it's face towards Dean, he could feel it's cold, musty breath on his face; "I would not soil my world again with your foul human stink," it hissed; "look well on my face; the next time you see it, the last thing you see will be my satisfaction as the light fades from your eyes."

The terrible face began to fade into the blinding light; the rest of the figure's long crooked body fading with it.

xxxxx

Already soaked by kneeling in the shallow shower pan under a constant drip of warm water, Sam had finally managed to overpower Dean, pulling the frantic man into a close hug, away from whatever it was that was tormenting him.

As far as Sam and Bobby could see, it was fresh air.

Ignoring Dean's frantic squirming, Sam wasn't letting go this time. He could feel Dean's heart pounding like a jackhammer against him as he whispered soothing reassurances as gently as he could to try to calm his terrified brother.

"Dean, c'mon man you're scaring me here; please Dean, talk to me."

Bobby reached across and handed Sam a large towel; "cover him up, son," he instructed Sam quietly.

Bobby's heart was breaking as he watched the terrible spectacle unfold before him; the usually brave, bombproof Dean Winchester squatting soaked and naked on the wet shower floor, rigid as a board, trembling violently in his brother's arms, his face frozen into a rictus of wide-eyed terror as he stared at the empty spot above his face. All Bobby could think of doing was to try to afford Dean whatever shred of dignity he could.

"Bobby what's happening?" Sam looked almost as terror-struck as Dean, as he clung grimly to his bucking, gasping brother; he looked up at Bobby through pleading eyes.

"He's having some kind of hallucination, or flashback or - or some sorta waking nightmare;" Bobby croaked, trying his damndest to hold it together; God, someone had to, "I wish Tom were here," he muttered, "he'd know what to do."

Sam hugged Dean as tight as he dared; "Dean, listen to me man; there's nothing there, it's all in your mind …"

Feeling Dean's struggles falter, he took the opportunity and gently lifted Dean's chin, trying to look straight into his eyes; "look Dean, it's me; there's nothing there. I promise."

The two men's eyes latched onto each other, and Sam couldn't hide his relief when Dean's eyes gradually refocussed.

"S-sammy?"

"Yeah," Sam almost wept with joy; "it's me Dean, you're safe and home with me and Bobby." He hesitated trying hard to compose himself; "look here we are, sitting in the shower, soaking wet again."

Dean looked up at Sam's face, "he's g-gonna kill me;" his whispering voice trembling so much, the words were barely coherent; "they want to t-torture me ... he said I would beg for death."

Sam held tight, daring to rub a hand up and down Dean's spine; "shhhh, hey bro', c'mon it was just a dream, a hallucination. No-one wants to kill you or hurt you."

"Don't wanna go back to that place …"

Sam continued to ghost a palm over the towel wrapped round Dean's back; "s'okay bro' no-one's takin' you anywhere; you're stayin' right here with me an' Bobby," he looked up at the older man who quickly and slyly wiped his eyes; "isn't that right Bobby?"

"Sure is," Bobby cleared his throat and smiled weakly.

Dean burrowed against Sam, his trembling hands fisting absently around the towel's frayed edge. Sam closed his eyes, daring to believe that Dean might be calming slightly.

"That's right, see?" soothed Sam. He didn't care right now that he sounded like a mother calming a spooked toddler; Dean could tease him for it later if he was so inclined.

Feeling Dean's rigid muscles start to relax beneath the towel, Sam allowed himself to relax slightly, he rested his chin on Dean's crown, still muttering and stroking Dean's back as he held him; doing everything in his power to reassure Dean without question that he was safe.

Behind him he could hear Bobby muttering. "Holy crap, what the hell did those bastards do to him?"

xxxxx

Some hours had passed and an air of nervous calm had settled across the house.

Bobby had busied himself cleaning the remains of breakfast off the kitchen floor, fixing the bathroom door, making drinks and now, out of chores to keep his mind off the matter in hand, he sat fidgeting miserably in his armchair; brooding, as he knew Sam would be, over what they had heard Dean say during and after his 'episode'.

The brothers sat on the couch, Dean pressed so close against his brother's side that another two inches to the left and he would have been sitting in Sam's lap. They all focussed silently on the crackling images of a game which no-one gave a damn about flickering through the ancient TV set's poor reception.

All three men were grateful for the diversion when Tom pushed the door open and walked, stiff-legged, into the room.

"Hey guys," Tom announced himself blearily.

Seeing that Sam was about to stand to give Tom his seat, Bobby saved him the trouble. Dean needed his brother close beside him right now; "hey Tom, how ya doing?"

Tom yawned, and coiled into a slow stretch; "surprisingly good," he smiled, "I tell ya – I would pay for some shut-eye like that every once in a while."

"That's great," Sam smiled craning his neck to look over the back of the couch; "great to see you up and about Tom."

Tom's eyes lit up when he saw Dean; "looks like Lloth was as good as his word," he observed; a mood of reflective sadness settled on his face as he thought of the little Drow.

"Yeah," Dean smiled shakily, "really appreciate your help Tom; Sam explained how you took a hit for me, I owe you one."

Tom smiled, "nah you don't buddy," but the smile faded when he caught the haunted emptiness behind the familiar face.

He turned to Bobby and his eyes asked the question.

"Hey Tom," Bobby walked over to his old friend, "glad you're up, I was jus' gonna make some chow – could use a hand."

Tom nodded smartly and followed Bobby into the kitchen.

Sam watched them go, then turned his attention back to Dean who sat gnawing his thumbnail, staring vacantly at the screen which was now showing little more than snow.

He wasn't surprised when he saw the kitchen door close quietly.

xxxxx

Bobby had barely closed the door before Tom spoke up; "what's wrong?" he asked.

A shrug. "Wish I knew," sighed Bobby.

"I think he must be suffering from some kind of post-traumatic-stress, Tom," Bobby began; "I don't know much about that kinda stuff, but I know he's not the same man as the one who was taken."

Tom thought for a moment; "he didn't look right sitting in there with Sam;" he pondered for a moment, then a look of alarm crossed his sleep-muzzed face, "you don't suppose – you know?"

Tom's voice faded, unsure how to phrase what he was asking.

Bobby saved him the trouble.

"Don' think so," Bobby confirmed, "I think he's all Dean; I did a couple of checks; not that there's much lore on this kinda stuff, but I've got no reason to believe the thing that came back is anything other than De … my boy."

Tom's face softened into sadness. "You don't think Lloth double crossed us?"

Bobby shook his head. "Not if what Dean tells us is true;" he sighed, "poor little guy stabbed himself with a shard of the mirror then used it to kill the much more powerful faerie that was holding Dean."

Tom's eyes widened in horror.

"Blood of a willing sacrifice," Bobby explained; "apparently, it's the only thing pure and powerful enough to kill them."

"Shit;" Tom doubled over like someone had punched him in the gut; "poor little guy."

Bobby nodded, "I don't think there's any doubt that our buddy Lloth did his bit."

He pulled a couple of pans out of the cupboard and set them on the stove; then turned to Tom, lowering his voice. "Dean would kill me if he knew I was tellin' ya this; but he had a full blown panic attack while we were patchin' him up yesterday."

Tom reflected that his old friend looked visibly shaken; "ain't never seen that;" Bobby sighed, "that boy's as reckless as hell. I've seen him sit through far worse without so much as a blink."

"Is he badly injured?"

"Three massive gashes down his back, that's all we managed to treat; he's got some kind of animal bites and scratches all over his chest – won't let us near them though."

Tom chewed his lip in thought.

"But that's not the worst of it," Bobby continued, "he just went into meltdown this morning, in the shower – some kind of flashback or hallucination. Seriously, I'm surprised it didn't wake you, he was screaming bloody murder about being raped and being killed."

Tom's jaw dropped; "raped?"

Bobby shrugged; "that's what he was cryin' out." He gave up trying to strike a match with his shaking hands, and slammed the box on the table; "what's wrong with him Tom, what's the matter with my boy?"

Tom reached out and placed a hand on his old friend's shoulder; "we'll fix this, Bobby, right?"

Bobby took a deep breath to compose himself; "the lore says a load about these damn things messin' with your mind, tormentin' people into madness." He looked up at Tom, "what if that's what they did? what if he's losin' his mind?"

He picked up the matches and tried to strike one again. Succeeding, he lit the stove; "he's been skittish ever since he got back, but we figured it was because he was pretty weak through dehydration at first. I'm tellin' you, Tom, it's got worse as time's gone on."

"I don't know what to do - I don't wanna scare Sam, he's a born worrier that one."

"We can be there for him, help him whenever he needs it;" Tom reassured calmly, "I often used to get involved in counselling trauma victims; it was years ago, but I can still help."

"Thanks Tom," Bobby looked away from Tom, and studied his feet for a moment; "what if he never gets over this, Tom? what if he just gets more and more scared?"

He looked up at Tom's brown eyes, now wide awake.

"Tom, don't tell Sam, whatever you do ..."

He hesitated for a moment, taking a deep breath.

"... but I'm scared to hell."

xxxxx

tbc


	12. Chapter 12

Sam lay in his bed listening to the soft ticking of the clock on his nightstand. He yawned, smiling crookedly as he heard a long, stuttering snore emanating from Bobby's room and echoing along the hall.

Rubbing his tired, stinging eyes briefly he squinted through a shaft of hazy moonlight that filtered through a gap in the too-narrow curtains. Crossing the foot of his bed it illuminated the bed across the room containing his sleeping brother in a soft grey light.

He sighed.

Under any other circumstances, the gentle 'tick tock' formed a soporific backbeat to which Sam often slipped into peaceful oblivion. But not tonight. Sleep wasn't coming to the younger Winchester tonight. His head was too full; full of fear, of unease, of concern. It was a boiling mass of doubts and worries.

Sam had repaired his brother more times than he cared to remember and his brother had done the same, and more, for him.

He had seen it all; flesh wounds, fractured bones, twisted joints, scratches, bites, cuts and bruises. Sam had mended them all. Armed with an extensive knowledge of first aid and a first aid kit that took up half the Impala's trunk, together with a strong stomach and confident nimble fingers, he had applied slings, tourniquets, and pressure bandages, he had stitched and sutured, and even laid on the odd liberal slathering of antiseptic cream.

There were no secrets, no shame between them. A man simply wasn't designed to reach a werewolf scratch across his own ass, so what was he to do?

Get his brother to treat it.

There was nothing that counted as going 'above and beyond' as far as the Winchesters were concerned.

But this was different, so very, horribly different.

The bastards hadn't broken Dean's body. They had damaged a part of him that Sam couldn't reach; the one part of his brother Sam couldn't wrap in a bandage and tell him everything was going to be okay.

They had broken his mind.

xxxxx

He watched through the gauzy moonlight as the lump under the bedclothes shifted with a pained sigh.

He had tried to rationalize his feelings; sure he was frustrated, he was furious with those damn 'faeries', and eaten up with a desire for revenge, he was confused and concerned. But above all, and this was the one thing he struggled most to accept; he was scared to death.

Wounds heal, bones knit, cuts close and bruises fade. But this? There was nothing Sam could do to guarantee his brother's recovery. He could only stand on the outside looking in as his brother slowly and surely descended into some kind of helpless meltdown and he was powerless to stop it.

He noticed Dean shift again, this time to lie on his back. A sudden harsh snore caught in the back of his throat as he did so.

Sighing again, Sam threw an arm across his tired eyes. Sleep definitely wasn't coming tonight, he was a fool to think it was, so no need to try any longer.

xxxxx

Dean's mind raced as nightmarish visions flitted and flickered before his closed eyes, a terrible kaleidoscope of despair and horror; clawed hands reaching out toward him; his own blood flowing freely; maniacal laughter taunting him.

 _"every breath you take is a stinking offence to me_ …"

That same malign voice revelling in his suffering.

 _"you will pay for the hurt you have done to my people and to me … I will strip all the skin from your bones_ …"

Three legged creatures, their greasy hair as black as hell whirled around him; engulfing him in that tortuous whining buzz.

Dean began to pant, his legs kicking wildly as his confused mind tried to force him to run from the surreal horror.

 _"you will beg for death before the end_ …"

Dean's wet eyes snapped open, bringing a hopeful release from the nightmare; but he looked up - straight into the ice-green eyes of his tormentor.

Cold, bony hands encircled his throat squeezing down the scream that tried to escape.

 _"every breath you take is a stinking offence_ ..."

xxxxx

Sitting up, Sam gave in to a growing sense of unease and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He padded barefoot across the room towards the other bed to find his brother writhing miserably amongst the tangled bedclothes. As Sam knelt down beside him, Dean let out a terrible gasping moan.

The bedsprings creaked and groaned as he shifted and fidgeted frantically beneath the rapidly retreating comforter.

Leaning over his distressed brother, Sam placed a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder; "Dean?"

Dean's hands clawed clumsily at an unseen assailant, wide eyes staring unfocussed and glassy through Sam, his wide open mouth gaping as he wheezed and choked, trying to suck in air. Arching and convulsing, he fought frantically against whatever terrible nightmare was tormenting him this time.

Then Sam realised it was far worse than that he could ever have feared. Dean genuinely couldn't breathe.

"Dean; oh God … DEAN," Sam's voice rose in pitch as panic took him in an iron grip.

"BOBBY … TOM …" Sam yelled at the top of his voice, forcing an arm under Dean's back, and trying to lift him into a more comfortable position. Heaving and pulling as hard as he could, he couldn't move Dean at all; the rigidly heaving body felt like it was made of lead.

Sam could feel the cold sweat that was soaking Dean's body, his chest convulsing grotesquely as he fought to suck in air, Sam fumbled in his panic for the night-light and could see to his horror that Dean's face was a deepening shade of red."Dean, listen to me … I'm gonna help," Sam gasped, amending his grip and trying again to hoist Dean into a sitting position. He turned, and called for help again.

"BOBB …"

Bobby came stumbling into the room, pulling on a pair of pants. "What the hell? Sam?"

"It's Dean," panted Sam, "he's having some kind of seizure or panic attack or something. He can't breathe," Sam was breathless with fear; "I can't lift him up; call an ambulance."

Bobby's eyes widened in horror as he saw Dean gaping grotesquely in Sam's arms; his terrified, pleading eyes staring up through Sam, out of his grotesquely florid face.

"Holy Jesus;" Bobby muttered, and lunged for Sam's phone, almost skittling Tom who had come charging up the stairs from his usual billet on Bobby's couch.

"S'goin' on?" He panted blearily.

"It's Dean, he can't breathe, he's havin' some kinda fit or sumthin';" Bobby gasped to Tom as he dialled 911.

Sam continued where Bobby had left off; "it started off as a nightmare and now he's choking," he panted through the effort of still trying unsuccessfully to lift Dean.

Both men suddenly noticed that Tom was standing frozen in mesmerised horror, open-mouthed as he stared pebble-eyed at the scene in front of him. "That's no nightmare," he croaked weakly.

Xxxxx

"It's real; I can see it, and it's got him round the throat, it's strangling him," Tom finally managed to blurt out, dashing toward Sam to offer a hand.

"What?" Sam gasped.

"Whatever it was that took him, I guess," snapped Tom eyeing it with disgust; "some freakin' fug ugly green bastard with antlers."

Sam's eyes widened with shock and fury, as he instinctively tried to lash out at the thin air above Dean, hoping he might do the invisible assailant some damage. He let out an involuntary sob of frustration as his arm swept harmlessly through thin air.

"I can't see it or feel it," he cried; "how can I stop something I can't see of feel?"

Bobby had turned from his conversation with the emergency service and was just staring in mute shock at Dean. The phone hung limply in his hand, a faint tinny voice repeating; "Mr Singer … are you still there? Mr Singer …?"

Suddenly a gash opened up across Dean's heaving chest.

Dean yawned a silent scream of pain through his constricted throat and Sam cried out in despair watching Dean's eyes rolling back into his head as he began to lose consciousness.

Tom joined Sam in trying to pull Dean off the bed and away from danger but a long gnarled arm swept round and knocked him clear across the room.

Sam watched in dismay as another gash opened across Dean's collarbone.

Bobby by now had given up on his phone call and waded into the fight alongside Sam as Tom rose unsteadily to his feet amidst the wreckage of the chest of drawers he had been hurled against."What do we do Bobby?" Sam cried as he gripped Dean's quaking body, trying with all his might to wrestle him away from the unseen creature; "how do we get it off him."

Bobby looked dumbstruck. "I don't know," he whispered; his helplessness was almost as terrifying to Sam as what was happening to his brother.

Suddenly both men were flung backwards by a blinding green flash, both forced to shield their eyes as the skeletal outline of the thing hunched over Dean erupted in a blazing green inferno.

It's roar rose into a deafening shriek as it exploded into a mass of green sparks, filling the room with a pungent swirling smoke, leaving scorch marks on the ceiling.

As Dean sunk limply into the mattress Sam, quickly gathering his wits, crawled over to the bed and pulled him into his arms. "Dean … Dean …" He chanted Dean's name mindlessly, rubbing Dean's bleeding chest through the ripped shreds of his T shirt willing himself to feel a heartbeat other than the pounding cadence in his own chest.

Sam almost wept, when he felt the racing throb beneath his flat palm.

"Dean, talk to me, man … Dean …" he muttered soothingly.

He was rewarded by a fluttering of the eyes beneath closed lids, and a gasping wheeze.

Suddenly he was jolted out of his relief when he heard Bobby's strained voice behind him."Sam!"

xxxxx

Sam glanced round to see Bobby, struggling to hold Tom upright, his strengthless knees buckling as his arms tightened around the shorter man's broad chest.

Tom hung limply in Bobby's arms, a dark patch spreading low across his T shirt as a stab wound in stomach bled out.

The knife he had found in the shattered chest of drawers dripped dark blood as it dropped from his limp fingers.

"Blood of a willing sacrifice," he whispered, as his legs finally gave out and consciousness left him.

Xxxxx

tbc


	13. Chapter 13

It all happened very quickly.

Within seconds of Tom's bleeding descent to the floor, the room became a frantic hive of activity; both beds were stripped of all their linen as Sam, together with Dean, blood from his own wounds, trickling down his braced arms, found themselves kneeling on the floor staunching the blood pouring from the wound in Tom's stomach while Bobby was making his distraught 911 call.

The bloodstained knife lay abandoned on the floor beside them where it had dropped from Tom's strengthless fingers having done it's work. The scorch marks on the ceiling were the only remaining evidence of a job well done.

In a matter of just minutes; Tom, unconscious and clinging to life, was being lifted into the back of an ambulance, followed by Bobby stumbling into his unlaced boots, unlocking the truck, and calling back up the stairs to the brothers that he would see them later and for Dean to get some rest.

As he clambered into the truck and fired up the engine, ready to follow the ambulance's flashing lights toward the hospital, Bobby made a mental note to call Sherriff Mills. His tale to the paramedics about a disturbed break-in would need her full co-operation to allay any inconvenient suspicions when her officers came sniffing round the 'crime scene' in days to come.

The wounds inflicted on Dean by his nocturnal visitor were unpleasant, but they were nothing Sam hadn't dealt with a dozen times before. Amidst all the madness, Sam and Bobby had both agreed that the brothers would stay at his place to patch Dean up, and for him to rest after this latest trauma in a long line of horrors that he had endured recently.

There was absolutely no point in three of them travelling to the hospital and cluttering up ER, pacing up and down the halls worrying and fretting. Bobby knew only too well that the Winchesters would be worried sick, but he figured they may as well do their worrying and fretting staying at his place treating Dean's wounds. He also knew that Dean badly needed to get some rest, so by staying home, Sam could try to coax him to do that; Bobby let out an involuntary snort. _Good luck with that Sam_.

Besides, Dean's injuries; the three-day-old slashes down his back together with the mysterious bite marks and scratches over his chest, and the newly-blossoming bruises around his neck, were difficult to pin on a particularly unpleasant housebreaker. They would raise too many awkward questions. No, all things considered, Bobby wanted to keep the medics well away from him.

xxxxx

Dean felt the mattress dip as Sam sat down on the side of the bed beside him with a bowl of warm water and the first aid kit. Both brothers were stunned into a shocked silence by this latest turn of events and Sam forced himself to take a series of long deep breaths to try to calm his shaking hands before attempting to treat Dean's bloodied chest.

His head whirled with concern. On top of everything else, how would Dean deal with this development? He had been unravelling so rapidly over recent days, Sam was terrified that this episode might be the final nudge that would tip him over the edge.

Whilst he was grateful beyond words to Tom for what he did, he wished with every fibre of his being it could have happened some other way.

He was jolted out of his musings by Dean's voice, little more than a whisper and worryingly calm.

"He's gone."

Sam blinked, "who?"

"The faerie king," Dean continued, turning to Sam, in wide-eyed earnestness.

Sam almost laughed. Man, how could their lives get any weirder?

"Yeah," Sam replied keeping his voice as low and reassuring as possible; "he's dead, and good riddance to the ugly green bastard."

He helped Dean pull the tattered remains of his T shirt off to reveal the two deep gashes criss-crossing his blood-smeared chest.

Reaching up with the facecloth he had brought in, he began to gently rinse the blood away from Dean's skin.

"They did it," Dean sighed, flinching against the cool water and the bite of the antiseptic, "the little black dude killed the Princess, and Tom, the reckless bastard, killed the King."

Sam thought back to the conversation around the kitchen table, that day when the terrible truth had dawned; Bobby had told both men that faeries could only die either by faerie magic or they can die of a broken heart.

His features tightened with anger; _'break their hearts? I'd break their damn necks for what they did,_ ' he thought furiously as he continued to work the bloodstained cloth over the deep scarlet cut running the length of Dean's collarbone, taking in the pale, healing scratches and bite marks peppering his skin as he did so.

"Good," he managed to grind out between clenched teeth, "no more than they deserved."

xxxxx

Dean turned slightly to grant Sam easier access to his shoulder, and took a deep breath.

"I know you heard me."

Sam paused and looked up from his work at Dean. "Heard what?"

"You heard me shouting and hollering in the shower."

Sam cleared his throat as he rinsed the cloth, trying to remain calm and nonchalant; "You weren't in your right mind, Dean, you were saying lots of things."

"She raped me, Sam."

Sam dropped the cloth in the bowl and closed his eyes; part of him had been waiting for this conversation, knowing it would be vital to help the healing process, but now he was confronted with it, he found himself wishing it had just been hysterical ramblings.

"The princess paralysed me with some kind of faerie magic, and she forced herself on me," he pointed to one of the scratches on his chest.

"She did this to me."

Sam's heart dropped into his guts; he'd thought they were caused by a wild animal. He felt himself start to tremble; whether it was with fear or sorrow or fury he wasn't sure.

"I've been hurt Sam; God knows, you know I have, but she hurt me more than I can describe." Dean's eyes lifted to look up into Sam's face, "and she stared into my eyes and laughed as she did it."

"She hurt me and humiliated me," Dean murmured softly; "I was tainted and polluted, and when you tried to touch me to clean me up, I'm sorry, I recoiled because I all I could think was I didn't want to pollute you with her filth too."

Sam turned away, clamping a hand over his mouth.

She violated my body; but they weren't satisfied with that. After the little black dude killed her and sent me back here, their King, her father, violated my mind." Dean shuddered; "he told me he was going to have vengeance and that I would beg for death before he let me go." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Everywhere I looked I could see him whispering at me and taunting me with what he was going to do to me and to you. I could see him all the time; in the walls, through the windows, reflected in mirrors ... worst of all I could see him looking back at me through your eyes with pure hatred." He paused for a moment, swallowing deeply; "then he started appearing for real. Sammy, I thought I was losing my mind."

"Bobby said that's what these bitches do; they mess with people's mind and drive them mad," Sam replied quietly.

Dean dropped his hands into his lap; "and Tom had to die to finish the bastards off, and to save my sorry ass because I wasn't strong enough to fight them off myself."

Sam wiped his eyes, and cleared his throat briefly; "Dean, for a start Tom isn't dead. We acted quickly to help him and now he's in the best possible place he can be, and secondly, these things are a power we can't even begin to understand;" he hesitated, "Dean, back when you were still missing and me Bobby and Tom were talking about faeries, that's the only time I've ever seen Bobby look and sound genuinely scared."

"They're terrifying. You can't beat them with strength or fair play. Bobby said the only way you can kill them is with their own magic, or break their hearts."

Sam picked the cloth up, taking a moment to steady his shaking hand ready to resume his work. "But they're both dead. It's all going to be fine now."

"Yeah; he's not inside my head any more, he's gone now."

Sam smiled weakly, "He's gone. They're both gone dude," he dropped the cloth into the bowl and pulled his brother into a deep, reciprocated hug.

"I know, Sammy, I know …" Dean replied, his voice a barely audible whisper into Sam's shoulder.

"God, I thought I was going to lose you dude," Sam croaked, "all the crap we've fought and beaten, the fierce, evil, vicious things we've killed, and the thing that I was going to lose you to was faeries;" he almost laughed at the absurdity of the thought.

There was no response other than a muffled sniff, and he felt the dampness of hot tears on his shoulder. As he sat silently and patted his brother's back he knew they were healing tears.

Sam looked up at the ceiling and silently hoped that this was the end of it, and that there wasn't some other sinister figure waiting in the darkness to pick up the vendetta.

xxxxx

It was about an hour after Dean had settled into a deep and undisturbed sleep that Sam lunged for his phone to prevent its ring tone waking his sleeping brother.

"Bobby, what's happening?" he barked urgently.

There was a deep sigh before Bobby answered; Sam hoped against hope it was a sigh of relief, not of anything less positive.

"Tom's just come out of surgery," Bobby responded; Sam could hear the exhaustion in the older man's voice. "looks like he's gonna be okay – eventually anyway."

Sam felt a smile stretch his lips; "thank God," he breathed.

"Yeah," agreed Bobby; "the Doc said it was a freakin' miracle the blade missed all his vital organs and blood vessels."

Sam sat on the end of his bed; "wow, lucky …"

There was a faint chuckle on the end of the phone. "Nah, not luck," Bobby replied, "I've been sittin' here mullin' it over ever since Tom was brought in."

Sam cocked his head curiously, "what?"

"Who better to know the best place to get stabbed and survive than an ex-police medical officer?" Bobby replied simply.

Sam's eyebrows began a slow march upwards.

"As a poker player, Tom can easily give Dean an' me a run for our money;" Bobby explained; "that man likes to gamble; an' I'm wagerin' he thought that with his medical and criminal knowledge, with our experience of treating injuries, an' with a decent hospital a short drive away, it was worth the gamble to try to help Dean."

Sam found himself letting loose a chuckle, cutting it short as Dean shifted in his bed with a quiet grunt.

"He's played those creepy green sons of bitches, and won Sam, he bluffed them."

"Dean called him a reckless bastard," Sam smiled.

"That wasn't reckless," Bobby replied quietly, "I'd say calculated."

"An' what's even better, Sam;" is you know I told you that there's only two ways faerie folk can die?"

Sam nodded; "yeah, they can be killed by faerie magic or die of a broken heart."

"Yeah, well according to the lore, when the royal bloodline of any faerie race is lost, the whole race fades away and dies with grief."

Sam stood up, scraping a hand through his increasingly unkempt fringe; "so …"

"He's wiped them all out," Bobby couldn't hide his glee; "not just the one that took Dean or the other one that came after him, but the whole damn race."

"So he's safe from any retribution?"

"Yep," Bobby replied; "so is everyone; no more faerie abductions."

"And proper revenge for Lloth," added Sam with a soft smile.

A brief silence fell between the two men, until Bobby spoke up with sweet satisfaction in his voice; "looks like our ultra-terrestrial, magic faeries weren't so freakin' clever after all."

Xxxxx

"I'm gonna stay here tonight," Bobby began to wrap up the call; "you two get some rest."

Sam nodded, "you take it easy too Bobby."

"Make sure ya brother's ok."

Sam looked across the room to Dean, snoozing contentedly in the bed beside him, one socked foot hanging off the end of the mattress.

Sam managed a small smile. He knew they weren't out of the woods; there would be tough times ahead but they would come out of the other side of them better and stronger, as they always did.

"He's gonna be okay Bobby," Sam reassured quietly; "when Tom wakes up, you tell him; Dean's gonna be just fine."

xxxxx

end

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fanart for Dizzojay's "The Darkest Realm"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11658066) by [The_Selective_Participater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Selective_Participater/pseuds/The_Selective_Participater)




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